Page 24

Chapter twenty-four

Leo

I arrived at The Colisée ninety minutes before the opening puck drop, my hands vibrating with a bone-deep hum. The arena stood empty and expectant, holding its breath. It was the same building we'd practiced in a hundred times, but something was different—the stakes were higher than ever.

The corridor to the locker room stretched longer than usual. My footsteps echoed off concrete walls painted Forge blue.

When I pushed through the door, I found the locker room half-empty. A few early arrivals had staked their territories: Mercier meticulously arranging his goalie pads, TJ silently taping his stick with the precision of a surgeon, and Pike in the corner with headphones jammed over his ears, eyes closed as he did his best to crawl inside himself.

I moved to my stall, dropping my gear bag with a muffled thud that nobody appeared to notice. We'd all become individual islands, wrapped in our pre-game rituals.

Pike caught my eye from across the room. The kid was a bundle of exposed nerves, tapping his stick against the floor with a rhythm that would have annoyed me if I hadn't recognized the anxiety fueling it. It was his first elimination game, and he wanted to prove himself worthy.

I crossed the room and nudged his skate with mine. "First one's the worst."

He yanked his headphones down. "What?"

"First elimination game," I clarified, keeping my voice steady. "After this, you'll know what to expect. Your brain won't be able to torture you with the unknown anymore."

Pike's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Were you nervous? Your first time?"

"Threw up in the shower stalls before warm-ups," I admitted. "Don't tell Mercier. He still thinks it was bad sushi."

A slight grin cracked Pike's stone-faced concentration. "Thanks. For, you know—"

"Don't mention it," I cut him off. I wasn't seeking gratitude. "Just play your game. The rest is noise."

The door swung open again, and Dane walked in. The atmosphere shifted. Everyone simultaneously straightened their spines slightly.

He didn't come over to me. He didn't need to. We'd said everything that mattered the night before with our bodies tangled together in bed.

TJ stepped into the middle of the room, clearing his throat. The quiet chatter died away.

"Listen up," he said, voice rough with emotion he wasn't bothering to hide. "We've busted our asses all year for this moment. One game. Sixty minutes. That's all that stands between us and the next round."

Carver, already half-geared up, chimed in. "Augusta thinks we're done. ESPN has us losing by two. Twitter's already writing our fucking obituaries."

"Let 'em," TJ nodded. "We know what we've got in this room."

Pike's knee had stopped bouncing. Mercier was watching from his corner, uncharacteristically still.

"We're not fancy," TJ continued. "We're not the favorites. But we're the hungrier dogs in this fight. And I wouldn't trade a single one of you assholes for anyone else."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. I felt it, too—that strange alchemy of twenty-three guys becoming something greater than the sum of their parts.

Coach MacPherson entered without an introduction, clipboard tucked under his arm as always. All attention focused on him.

His eyes swept across every face, lingering a half-second longer on the younger guys. When he spoke, his gravelly voice carried to every corner.

"This game isn't just a test of skill," he said, the words landing like stones in still water. "It's a test of character. Who you are when your back's against the wall—that tells me more than any highlight reel goal."

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

"Augusta's going to come out hitting. They're going to try to rattle you early. Make you doubt. Make you hesitate." His eyes narrowed. "Don't give them an inch. Not one goddamn inch."

He laid out the matchups, adjustments, and details we'd drilled all week. Still, the X's and O's on his diagrams weren't what mattered now. It was the conviction in his voice that we belonged in the playoffs.

As Coach wrapped up, I spotted Dane watching me. It wasn't the captain evaluating his troops. There was an unspoken question in his eyes. Ready?

I nodded. Always.

We rose as one organism, gear rustling, voices suddenly louder as the tension broke. Someone cranked the stereo, bass thumping through the floorboards. Game time was coming. It would be the moment when thinking ended, and instinct took over.

This was what I lived for. All of us did.

The roar hit of the crowd hit me like a physical force when we stepped onto the ice. We'd packed every seat with a sea of Forge blue. Signs and foam fingers joined the faces as the energy rolled down from the rafters in waves.

Warm-ups passed in a blur of routine—stretches, shots, and figure-eight drills--all part of my muscle memory since I was ten. My body moved on autopilot while my mind sorted through details about Augusta's players, picking out tendencies and weaknesses I could exploit. Their captain, Donovan, tracked me with equal intensity, the bruise on his jaw still visible from our last meeting.

When the buzzer signaled the end of warm-ups, we filed back through the tunnel for final adjustments. I felt the familiar tightening in my gut and the narrowing of focus right before battle. Some guys were quiet. Others, like Carver, needed to be loud. I merely let the adrenaline build, banking it like a fire that would burn hot for the next three periods.

The national anthem stretched time into taffy. My legs vibrated with the need to move as the final notes echoed across the ice.

Finally, the ref dropped the puck, and chaos erupted.

Augusta came at us precisely as Coach had predicted—hard, fast, and vicious. Their defensemen stepped up to the blue line, laying into us with bone-rattling hits. One of them sent Pike sprawling.

For the first five minutes, we fought for survival. I took a shoulder to the ribs that drove the air from my lungs and struggled back to the bench with my vision swimming at the edges. Carver caught a high stick that went uncalled, blood spattering bright red across the ice as he skated to the bench, cursing through a split lip.

"They're headhunting," TJ muttered, passing me a water bottle. "We need to weather it."

I nodded, gulping air as Coach called the lines. Augusta's strategy was transparent—intimidate us early, make us hesitate, and plant doubt. It was old-school hockey bullshit, but effective if you let it get to you.

Thirteen minutes in, they broke through. Their top line caught us on a bad change, leaving Mercier with a two-on-one where he had no chance. The puck nestled in the top corner of our net, and the small contingent of Augusta fans erupted in cheers while our crowd deflated like a punctured balloon.

Our bench fell silent. It was the first crucial moment—either we'd crack and start gripping our sticks too tight or dig deeper and fight back.

"Next shift," Dane said from his spot at the end of the bench, voice level but carrying. "Reset. Do your job."

I watched the faces of my teammates for signs of cracking. TJ nodded, eyes hard with determination. Carver spat blood and tightened his chinstrap. The rookies looked pale but resolute. Only Pike seemed to be vibrating with something beyond nervousness—something closer to hunger.

Coach must have seen it, too, because he tapped Pike's shoulder earlier than his regular shift would have come. "You're up with Campbell and Whitaker. Don't overthink it."

Pike's eyes widened, but he nodded and swung himself over the boards when the whistle blew for a faceoff in the neutral zone. I followed, aware of Dane close behind me.

The moment the puck dropped, something changed. Pike didn't play like a rookie with stage fright. He attacked the game, anticipating rather than reacting. When Augusta's bruising defenseman pinched down to line me up, Pike slipped the puck through his feet and burst past him with a shocking surge of speed.

"Go, go, go!" I bellowed, cutting across to create a lane.

Pike didn't hesitate. He hit me with a tape-to-tape pass that landed right in my stride. The defense collapsed toward me as I spotted Dane breaking toward the net. With one touch pass from me, right onto his tape, Dane sent the puck like a rocket past the Augusta goalie.

The arena exploded. Dane crashed into the boards, arms raised high. Pure joy transformed his face. Pike reached us a second later, and I grabbed him in a headlock, shouting his name over the deafening crowd.

"Holy shit!" Pike yelled when we broke apart, his face flushed with exhilaration. "That felt—"

"Like flying," I finished for him, recognizing the high. "Bottle it. We're only getting started."

As we skated back for the center-ice faceoff, I caught Dane's eye. He was back in captain mode, already focused on the next shift. I bumped his glove with mine.

"Kid's got teeth," I muttered.

Dane smiled. "Wonder where he learned that."

The period ended with the score tied 1-1. We filed into the locker room, bodies damp with sweat. A tentative thread of optimism wove through the exhaustion. We'd weathered Augusta's initial assault and were still standing. The game was ours to win.

I watched Pike across the room as I gulped water and readjusted my gear. His eyes were bright, his nervousness replaced by something I recognized intimately—the realization that he could affect the outcome and that he belonged at this level. It was like watching my younger self before cynicism and scars complicated everything.

"You're staring." Dane dropped onto the bench beside me. His shoulder pressed against mine.

"Thinking."

"About?"

I hesitated, the words stuck briefly in my throat. "About how much this all matters."

Dane's eyes met mine. "Yeah, it does."

The second period started with the same frenzied pace, and we grabbed the momentum. Augusta wasn't landing the same devastating hits. Their legs looked heavier, and their breakouts less crisp.

Five minutes in, I battled along the boards, and time slowed to a crawl. A pass deflected off a skate, floating into the slot where Donovan was waiting uncovered. He one-timed it before Mercier could reset, the puck disappearing into the top corner of our net.

The crowd groaned as Augusta retook the lead. Frustration radiated from our bench. It was another dangerous moment—when doubt could creep in and belief in ourselves could wane.

"Short memory," Coach barked as we filed past. "Next shift, clean slate."

I gulped water, watching Dane out of the corner of my eye. His expression hadn't changed—still focused.

Coach shuffled the lines, separating Dane and me for the first time in weeks. "Need to spread out the offense," he explained, tapping my shoulder. "Campbell, you're with Carver and Pike. Whitaker, take TJ and Bash."

The change wasn't punishment. It was pure strategy. Still, being on different lines felt wrong—like someone had broken a limb beneath me.

As I skated past Dane, he clapped my shoulder. "Go make something happen."

My new line hit the ice with a vengeance. Carver, never known for subtlety, threw his body at anything that moved, creating space through sheer intimidation. Pike darted through the gaps like water, finding a path through piles of stones. I compensated for any changes in the defense, reading their patterns and adjusting my game to fit their styles.

We created opportunities—a deflection that kissed the post and a rebound that skittered just wide of the open net. The crowd roared with each near-miss, the collective gasps and groans of eighteen thousand people riding an emotional rollercoaster.

"Fuck!" Carver slammed his fist against the boards as a shot went wide, frustration boiling over. "Can't buy a break."

I shook my head, gulping air. "It's coming. Keep pushing."

When they took over, Dane's line didn't fare much better. TJ took a hit that left him hobbling on one leg, though he refused to miss the shift. Bash, normally a serious physical presence, couldn't find a gap against Augusta's tight checking.

The minutes ticked down, each passing second adding urgency to our efforts. Five minutes left in the period, and the tension in the building had ratcheted up to nearly unbearable levels. Every shot and every blocked puck generated desperate cheers or anxious groans. The crowd lived and died with each shift.

Coach tapped my shoulder. "Back with Whitaker. Let's change the momentum."

Relief crashed through me as I swung over the boards beside Dane, our strides automatically syncing. The familiarity was immediate—his presence on my right.

We didn't need words. We used a glance, a tilt of the head, and a tap of the stick—our shared language built through hundreds of shifts. The exhaustion weighing on my legs lightened as we moved in tandem, creating space where none existed, threading passes through defensive seams.

"There it is," Coach murmured as we changed again. "Keep that going. It's gonna break."

The period ended with us trailing by one, but the momentum favored us. We'd hemmed Augusta in their zone for the final two minutes, forcing their goalie to make three desperate saves. As we filed off the ice, our crowd rose in appreciation, recognizing the tide turning even if the scoreboard didn't reflect it yet.

In the locker room, the atmosphere was different than the first intermission. It was now all a simmering collective optimism.

TJ got his ankle re-taped, wincing as the trainer pulled the bandage tight. "They're on their heels," he said. "They know it's coming."

"Twenty minutes," Carver added, his usual bluster replaced by focused conviction. "Twenty fucking minutes to keep our season alive."

I sat beside Dane, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "Feels different."

Dane nodded, eyes fixed on his skates as he retied the laces. "Our team last year would've cracked after that second goal."

"What changed?"

He turned his head to look at me. "Everything."

Coach appeared. "One goal," he said, voice soft but carrying to every corner. "That's all that separates us from them. One bounce, one shot, one moment." He paused. "I'll tell you what I see when I look at this room. I see twenty-three guys who've been told what they can't do all season, and you've proved everyone wrong."

Pike sat straighter, eyes gleaming. Mercier nodded, his expression set in stone behind his mask.

"Augusta thinks they've got us. That they've weathered our best shot." Coach's voice hardened. "Show them they haven't seen anything yet."

As we rose for the final period, Dane's hand brushed against mine—a deliberate point of contact. I caught his wrist, squeezing once before letting go.

The third period began with Augusta trying to protect their lead, dropping four men back and clogging the neutral zone. Their strategy was clear—slow the game down, frustrate us, force mistakes. Classic turtle hockey. They weren't playing to win anymore. They were playing not to lose.

That subtle difference was like blood in the water for us. We could smell it and taste it. We had Augusta running scared.

The crowd sensed it, too, the noise level climbing with each shift. It was the collective will of thousands pushing us forward and demanding more.

I hunched over in my stance for a defensive zone faceoff, ribs screaming from that first-period hit. Across the dot, Donovan smirked, sweat dripping from his helmet.

"This is where you choke, right?" he muttered just before the puck dropped. "History repeating itself."

I didn't bite. The old Leo Campbell would have. That dig would have burrowed under his skin and distracted him, causing mistakes. I wasn't that guy anymore.

I won the draw clean, snapping it back to TJ, who was already coiled to strike. He took three strides and launched himself at Augusta's forechecking forward, a textbook open-ice hit that cracked through the arena like a gunshot.

Bodies collided, and the forward—Keller, I thought—crumpled to the ice, his stick clattering away. The crowd erupted, bloodlust and vindication fueling the roar as TJ straightened, unfazed.

"That's how we fucking answer!" Carver bellowed from the bench, smacking his stick against the boards.

Something broke loose in that moment, some invisible barrier holding us back. The next shift barreled forward like a hurricane; our forecheck relentless. We pinned Augusta deep in their zone.

Dane worked the half-wall, shrugging off a defender to feed Pike at the point. The kid—no, not a kid anymore, not after today—didn't hesitate. He walked the line, buying time as I crashed the net, drawing attention.

Pike's shot was perfect—a rising wrister zipping through a tangle of bodies that beat the goalie clean over his glove. The arena exploded as Pike's hands shot skyward, exultation painted across his face.

I reached him first, grabbing his jersey and shouting my praise. The bench emptied, every player pouring over the boards to mob our rookie hero.

"Holy fuck!" Pike kept saying, his voice cracking. "Holy fuck, holy fuck!"

The tied score unleashed something primal in both teams. The next ten minutes were like a brutal chess game—every inch contested. Augusta abandoned their defensive shell, pushing back with renewed desperation. Shots caromed off posts, bodies collided with reckless abandon, and Mercier made three saves that defied physics.

The clock ticked down relentlessly—ten minutes, then five, then three. The tension had wound so tight I could taste it, metallic and sharp in the back of my throat. A single bounce would decide our fate now. One shot, one mistake, or one moment of brilliance.

With just under two minutes remaining, Coach tapped our shoulders."Whitaker, Campbell," he said, voice gravelly with emotion he couldn't fully contain. "Go finish this."

We exchanged glances, understanding the weight of that command. It was our moment. Everything we'd built together—trust, chemistry, and the unspoken language of anticipation—had led to this.

Augusta won the faceoff, but their clearing attempt ricocheted off a skate and stalled in the neutral zone. Dane pounced, gaining speed as he crossed the blue line. I broke toward the net, sensing rather than seeing his intentions, my body already in motion before conscious thought.

Two defenders converged on Dane, leaving me a seam. Without looking, he slid the puck between them, a blind pass that landed perfectly on my tape.

Time slowed as the puck settled. Their goalie was already in motion, anticipating my shot. I could have taken it. Instead, I hesitated a fraction of a second, drawing the defender to me, and fired a return pass to where I knew Dane would be.

He materialized in the perfect position. His shot was a mere formality—a tap into the yawning net before the goalie could recover.

I crashed into Dane a heartbeat later, grinding him into the glass. His hands gripped my jersey, pulling me against him as our teammates piled on, a tangle of limbs, whoops, and disbelieving laughter.

"You fucking did it," I shouted over the noise, my forehead pressed against his helmet. "It's your game, Cap'n."

His eyes met mine, bright, sparkling blue. "We did it," he corrected, his grip tightening.

The final minute was a blur of Augusta's desperation and our collective refusal to bend. Mercier launched his stick into the air when the buzzer sounded, a javelin of triumph that arced against the rafters as we poured onto the ice.

"That's your captain!" Carver bellowed, one arm slung around Dane's shoulders. "And his right hand!"

The chaos was beautiful—players embracing, the crowd stomping until the building shook, and our staff exchanging high-fives. In the midst of it, I found Dane again, our bodies gravitating toward each other through the mayhem.

We didn't need any words. The game had spoken for us, writing our story across sixty minutes of shared struggle and triumph. Whatever came next—more playoff games, next season, the years beyond—we had carved this moment into the permanent record.

We had proven what was possible when two people who were supposed to be oil and water instead joined together to become an unstoppable force.