Page 104 of Switching Skates

Everyone looks up at the replay on the display above.

Mason clearly has control of the puck, but then one of their guys knocks it out from his glove, stealing control, and he jabs it into the goal with his stick.

“Ref, you suck!” continues to ring out through the arena as the refs huddle up, the captains of both teams waiting just a few feet away.

A few moments later, the head official skates out to the center of the ice and talks into the mic, gesturing with his hand that the goal is good.

The arena shakes with anger at the bad call. It was clear as day that Mason had possession, which should’ve stopped the play.

Mason looks over at me, and I shake my head, telling him to brush it off. That goal might not be his fault, but the game is now tied, and everyone—players, coaches, fans—are all pissed off as the face-off is set back up at center ice.

Five minutes left.

The Mammoths win the face-off and head into their zone, Mason in position and ready for anything.

“Come on, baby. You got this,” I mutter under my breath.

They set up a play, dekeing one of our defenders out and firing an open shot toward the top-right corner. But Mason reads him like a book, catching the puck.

One of the Titans players skates up on him, spraying him with ice long after the play is dead.

Mason stands up tall on his skates, towering over the small forward and looking down on him with an intimidating stance, a smile stretching across his face. Which certainly shouldn’t look as hot as it does.

Two of our guys drag the Titans player away as he chirps at Mason, who ignores him and turns back to his net. He tosses the puck to the ref and gets a drink from his bottle.

Two minutes left.

We need to score. If this goes into overtime, my heart might actually explode.

Both teams fight for control, neither able to maintain possession as they battle up and down the ice.

One minute left.

“Let’s go, Mammoths. Let’s go!”

THUMP. THUMP.

The cheers erupt from the crowd, and we join in, screaming along as the clock ticks away.

Fifty seconds left.

Forty seconds left.

Thirty seconds left.

Twenty seconds left.

A glimmer of hope appears as Brock steals the puck from the Titans and flings it down the ice to Chet, who is digging into the ice like his life depends on it, with a defenseman right behind him.

“Go, Chet! Go!” I scream, my voice raw and ragged as I smack the glass as hard as I can, standing to my feet.

The defenseman tries to trip him up with his stick, but Chet maneuvers around it and manages to put a tiny bit of space between them.

Chet catches the puck on his stick right after entering the zone. Flying across the ice, he fakes right, and the goalie eats it up, falling for it. Chet pulls it left and backhands it easily into the net.

“Yes!” I jump up and down, as does everyone around me.

Maeve leaps into my arms, and I catch her, easing her fall back to the ground.