Page 126 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I nod, grabbing a sip of water, sweat already prickling beneath my pads. Russo taps his stick against the boards in response.

The next shift’s tighter. More physical. New York’s top line pushes back hard, bodies flying against the glass, blades cutting sharp. I catch a hard hit in the corner, but still send the puck up the boards before I’m fully upright.

The adrenaline kicks in harder. Every pass feels cleaner. Every collision fiercer.

Midway through the period, we finally break through.

It starts with a turnover near the red line. Russo picks off a pass and launches forward with me trailing. I see it building. Their defense scrambles.

Two-on-one.

Russo fakes left, drags the puck, then flips it low across the crease.

Stick blade flush against the ice, I tap it in.

Goal light flashes. Horn blares.

And the arena erupts.

I let the roar hit me for a second as the boys mob me by the glass. Russo bangs his helmet against mine.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” he shouts.

I grin and skate back to the bench.

Coach claps my shoulder. “Nice finish, Hart.”

I nod once. “We’re not done yet.”

Not even close.

Second period, they come back swinging, trying to shift momentum. But we’re ready. We match them stride for stride, body for body.

By the midpoint, it’s still 1–0.

They get called for tripping Russo. The ref’s arm goes up, the whistle blows, and just like that, we’re on the power play.

We rotate lines again. We clamp down. The puck moves end to end, quick and brutal. No whistles. No breaks. Just pure, unrelenting pace.

Three minutes left in the period. Stevens fires a slapshot, and Russo tips it in. Beautiful. Precise.

The crowd roars. I yell louder.

We head into second intermission up 2–0.

Still a whole period left to go.

But now we can taste it.

The third period starts like a gunshot.

New York comes out like a lit fuse. Bodies flying, shots raining down, desperate and explosive. Every inch of ice turns into a war zone.

For the first five minutes, we’re scrambling—lines bending under pressure, struggling to clear. I get stuck out too long, legs burning as I chase a winger down the boards. He circles the net and snaps off a wrister that clangs off the crossbar.

Too close.

I dive for the rebound, chip it to neutral ice, and use the momentum to stagger back to the bench. Coach is yelling. Russo too. Everyone’s locked in.