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The faceoff came, the puck dropped, and for a moment, it disappeared into the mess of sticks and bodies.

But then it was back in the slot, and someone wound up.

I barely got my shoulder in front of it in time—a sharp sting as the puck found my muscles and dead weight.

The impact radiated out through my arm, but it didn’t matter.

The pain was just a reminder that we could still take this game because there were no more second chances.

Then we caught a break. One of their defensemen got cocky, pinched too high on the wall, and our winger—Matty—saw it and took off like a cannonball.

One clean breakout pass and he was gone, eating up the ice with long, fluid strides that looked lazy until you realize he could outskate everyone.

I felt the shift in the atmosphere as the entire arena collectively held its breath.

The puck slid onto his stick, and with one fluid motion, he snapped it.

A quick wrist shot, low glove side, and the red light flashed before their goalie even reacted.

The crowd erupted. The moment washed over me, a wave of sound and energy I couldn’t escape, but I didn’t celebrate. Not yet.

Third period started, and the ice felt heavier.

Every shift stretched longer than it should, like the seconds themselves were dragging their feet.

The game had slowed down, but not in the way I wanted.

It was like the weight of every hit, every pass, every save accumulated on me, pressing down with a force that was impossible to ignore.

They pushed harder now, more desperate, and it showed in the way they played—sloppier, yeah, but harder to read.

They’d been rattled. And that meant we had a chance to take it all the way home.

I ignored the shoves and let my boys fight it out on the ice. My only job was protecting the box.

Focus. Focus. Focus .

With four minutes left, we took a penalty.

Two full minutes of survival mode, and I dug deep and pulled out the meager reserves I had left.

They cycled like they had magnets in their blades, snapping passes across the seam as they tried to draw me out of position.

But I refused to bite. I stay planted. I let them tire themselves out while I waited for the real threat.

The puck moved like it had a mind of its own, darting across the ice, fast and sharp. I was ready. Always ready.

I gloved a one-timer and held, freezing the play. The bench erupted, sticks clapping against the boards. I didn’t smile. We still weren’t done.

Then, with under a minute left, they pulled their goalie.

Six on five now, and it was like someone kicked a beehive.

The ice shrank. I dropped for a low shot, caught it with the toe of my pad, and scrambled up just in time to smother the rebound.

No whistle. The puck popped loose, and I threw myself across the crease to block a shot I never even saw begin.

The impact rattled through me, but I didn’t stop.

Didn’t let up. The seconds ticked down, each one more fragile than the last. My lungs were on fire, my legs screamed in protest, sweat dripped into my eyes, but my focus was sharper than ever.

Thirty seconds. My vision narrowed. The world shrank to a single point of focus: the puck, the net, the game.

I couldn’t hear the crowd anymore. It was just me and them.

They passed high. It was a laser shot, but it caught a shin pad and ricocheted off-target.

Our center dove full-body and got enough on it to swat the puck loose, and suddenly it trickled past the point men and out of the zone. The crowd collectively held its breath.

I didn’t chase it with my eyes right away.

There was a half-second where I froze, still crouched, heart in my throat.

Time stopped, suspended in that split moment where everything hinged on the next fraction of a second.

It was the longest moment of my life. My head was screaming at me to check the puck, to make sure it was gone, but I didn’t. I just waited.

Then I heard it. The crowd’s roar shook the stands.

I looked up in time to see the puck still rolling, slow and steady, heading toward that empty net like it was being called home.

It was a perfect arc, a graceful, almost inevitable path, and then—contact.

The net rippled, the final whistle followed almost immediately, and it was over.

The buzzer sounded, loud and insistent, like it was announcing the end of the world.

The crowd erupted. The arena shook with the force of their cheers.

My teammates shouted with their sticks raised, gloves flung skyward.

But I just stood there, frozen in my crease, mask fogging with every breath, sweat sliding down my spine.

My body was screaming, but my mind was still, locked in the finality of the moment.

Four years of practice and pain, locker room speeches and bus rides, frozen bruises and burned-out blades, broken laces and frozen fingers, and everything in between all led here. The win. The end. The last time I’d ever wear this jersey for this team.

The guys were already rushing the bench.

I felt them behind me, heard the clatter of their skates and the sharp, staccato shouts of victory.

Helmets were tossed in the air like graduation caps.

Someone slapped the glass. Someone else let out a whoop that echoed like a firework across the ice.

It was happening around me, all of it—movement, noise, the kind of wild joy you only got when the score finally swung your way after months of chasing it uphill.

I stayed right where I was, planted in my zone, stick resting against my pads, breath shallow. My chest was tight for a different reason now. Not nerves. Not adrenaline. Something heavier. Something quieter. Reverence, maybe. Or disbelief.

Because this was it.

It was over.

I turned slowly, just enough to scan the chaos. My teammates were hugging, shouting, piling into each other like they were trying to absorb the win through osmosis. A couple of them looked toward me, beckoning, but I shook my head once. Not yet. Give me a second . Let me feel this .

Someone grabbed me from behind—Rafe, maybe—and yelled something about getting over there. I let myself be dragged, finally, stumbling into the scrum of arms and helmets and sweat-soaked hugs.

And when I looked up at the stands, I found Ellie in the sea of screaming fans, but he wasn’t joining in.

Instead, he was smiling brightly with my number plastered across his chest. The rightness of it all settled in my chest like something final and permanent, the last piece locking into place.

Tonight was my last game, my last moment on this ice, but the beginning of us.