Page 18 of Overtime Goal (Buffalo Warriors Hockey #4)

logan

Game days were always charged, with our nerves buzzing under the surface like bees on high alert. After morning skate at Cuda Arena, we went to the hotel for lunch and a nap. We were back in the arena at five p.m., getting ready for the seven-thirty puck drop.

The routine never varied as we got ourselves into game mode. After a soccer ball kickaround and team meeting, we had time to take care of things like taping sticks, checking our skates, and getting suited up.

Before we took the ice, Criswell made a short speech.

“The Barracudas are a machine,” he said.

“Clean, fast, and ruthless. They’ll push you to the edge, bait you into fights without crossing the line, and dare you to push back.

Don’t do that, because you’ll be the one who goes to the box.

We’re not handing them power plays tonight.

Play smart, play hard, and play like hell.

Take no prisoners.” He paused to look around.

“Regardless of what happens, it’s an honor working with you, boys.

If we do our jobs out there, they’ll be coming to Buffalo for game seven. ”

Our cheer was electric, the sound of twenty-three men balanced on a live wire. My gut was tight, and my leg wouldn’t stop jerking. Across the room, Riley met my eyes and smiled. It was like a deep, cool breath, and when he nodded, I nodded back.

The tunnel roared with the sound of skates on the rubber mat, the thrum of bass through the walls, and the cries of Barracudas fans already baying for blood.

My visor fogged as we stepped onto the ice, and I blinked fast. Riles skated up beside me, shoulders tight and eyes locked forward.

Bethesda might’ve ruled the league for years, but tonight, they were standing in our way.

We were about to show them exactly how we planned to solve that problem.

At the first faceoff, the puck hit the ice like a gunshot.

Nick Johnson won the draw and sent the puck wide to Tyler Jensen, his right wing and one of the fastest skaters in the league.

Jensen exploded through the neutral zone, blades shrieking on the fresh ice.

Johnson trailed him up the middle, and at the blue line, Jensen dropped the puck back like clockwork.

Harpy was on them, closing fast but a half-stride too late.

Johnson threaded the return pass low into the slot.

Jensen shot off the pass, snapping the puck top shelf, over Gabe’s blocker.

The crowd roared like they’d just won the Cup.

Criswell didn’t panic but signaled for the change. The second line was up. I vaulted over the boards and hit the ice with Holky and Packy; Riley and Brody were backing us up on defense. The Barracudas sent their second line out too. They were still lethal, but we were better.

Holky won the faceoff and sent it to Riley, who dumped it deep. Packy tore down the wing like a man possessed, shrugged off a check, and beat their D to the puck. He spun on a dime behind the net, chipped it up the boards to me, and peeled off to the front.

I dangled, pulling off their left D to sell the shot, then whipped it low and hard toward Packy’s tape. He was ready and roofed it before their goalie could blink. 1–1, less than two minutes into the game. The Cuda fans hated it, and I loved that.

The crowd was still crying for blood as we took our places on the bench. Under the noise, beneath my nerves, I sensed the game had shifted. The Barracudas had landed the first punch, but we’d hit back less than a minute later. The night was far from over.

During the first intermission, the locker room was quiet.

We’d found our rhythm, and no one wanted to break it.

After stripping off our jerseys, most of us stretched and then swigged water like it was medicine.

Riley sat with a towel over his head, elbows on his knees, the way he often did when he needed to focus.

When it was time to line up, he took off the towel, met my eyes, and grinned.

My heart raced like we’d already won. I’d never known anyone else who could calm me down and fire me up at the same time.

Five minutes into the second, our line hit the ice against the Cudas’ top unit, and it was trench warfare: rush, recover, turnover, rush again.

Holky charged the Barracudas’ zone with the puck, but Sakamoto, one of their wingers, picked his pocket and peeled out the other way.

As we pivoted hard to chase him down, Cleever, one of their D-men, clipped Brody with a high stick.

It was accidental, but the ref sent Cleever to the box. Power play for us.

The faceoff was in our zone. Holky snapped the puck to Packy, who held on long enough to bait the forwards before sliding it back to Riles.

Riles faked, sent it to Holky, and the dance began.

Somehow, their remaining men pinned us, so we were threading passes through sticks and legs, playing keep-away with a Barracuda penalty-kill unit that didn’t give an inch.

Our advantage finally paid off. When the pressure cracked enough to open a lane, I found space in the slot.

Holky zipped the puck over, and I barely had time to catch it before Jensen was all over me.

Desperate to get rid of the puck, I glanced around.

Riley was to my left, speeding up the ice.

When he veered right toward the goal, I fed him a one-touch pass.

He snapped it home, low and lethal. Bar down.

The goal light flashed, and our bench erupted in celebration.

2–1, Warriors.

Riley pumped both fists and skated straight for the glass, then swiveled away from it with a whoop loud enough to rattle the boards.

Packy caught up and nearly took him off his skates with a leaping hug.

Holky was next, shouting in his face, and I got there last. I hooked an arm around Riley’s neck and tugged him close, yelling, “Hell of a shot.”

His eyes were bright, and he bumped my helmet with his. “We’ve got this,” he said, already turning to skate toward the bench for a shift change.

For the rest of the period, the teams jetted around the ice, desperate to grab an advantage. But both goalies stood on their heads, and no one could get a shot through. When the clock wound down to one minute before intermission, I was confident we’d go to the locker room with a one-point lead.

Seventeen seconds later, Nick Johnson struck.

It was a textbook play. He stole the puck off a sloppy pass near our blue line, slipped between Brody and Packy like smoke, and snapped a wrister from the high slot.

Gabe saw it too late, and the puck flew past his glove.

The score was 2–2, and the arena detonated.

Even as I cursed from the bench, part of me had to admire the bastard.

He’d earned his golden reputation, and that goal was a perfect example of why he scared the shit out of netminders everywhere.

The third period was carnage. Every shift ended with someone struggling for breath, and every play came with a collision.

Dog launched himself into Sakamoto like a wrecking ball and sent him sprawling.

When we were up, Moore crunched Packy into the glass so hard I felt it from twenty feet away.

Six minutes in, Jensen caught me with a shoulder that had me airborne.

I landed with a hard thud. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t hurt. But the fall had knocked the breath out of me, and I couldn’t get up. As the arena grew silent, the grind of approaching skates seemed unnaturally loud.

“Logan?”

It was Riles. I couldn’t speak yet, and when I tried to open my eyes, they resisted.

“Logan! Look at me.”

Finally, I opened my eyes and saw he’d knelt beside me. He had one of his hands on my shoulder.

“Thank God,” he said, still sounding scared. “Are you okay?”

“Uh.” I tried to say more but still didn’t have the breath. When I looked at Riley, there were tears in his eyes.

“Fuck.” His voice was rough, and he swallowed hard. “Please say you’re not hurt.”

I tried to move, but Riley held my shoulder while someone else clamped down on my left side.

“Be still, big guy. The trainer’s almost here.”

I looked over in time to register Holky’s worried face.

Then Randy, our head trainer, pushed him out of the way and knelt beside me.

Riley didn’t move. When Randy was satisfied I wasn’t concussed and had no broken bones, he and Riles helped me up.

As they guided me toward the bench, Randy said I needed to let the team doc take a look to be sure everything was fine.

Doctor Levy was waiting at the entrance to the tunnel to take me back for an exam.

Riley held on to my arm and leaned close. “I was so scared, but you’ll be okay. Do what the doc says.”

In the medical room, I kept an eye on the TV in the corner while Levy examined me. The game had become a blur of line changes, odd-man rushes, and desperation blocks. Bodies flew from super hard checks, but there were no penalties. It was clean, brutal hockey.

Fortunately, the doctor agreed with Randy that I wasn’t injured. He told me I was a lucky SOB and could go back out to the bench. Who knew if Criswell would let me play, but at least I could sit with the boys.

The Warriors went up 3–2 with nine minutes left. Harpy barreled down the middle with Dog trailing wide. Inside the blue line, Harpy snapped a saucer pass across, and Dog let it rip from the top of the circle. The puck sailed through the Cuda goalie’s five-hole.