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I fake left, cut right, feeling the weight of the puck on my stick and the anticipation of the crowd buzzing around me like an electric current.
“Shoot!” someone screams from the stands, but I’m looking for the pass, trying to outsmart rather than overpower.
“Here!” Sawyer calls, finding open space, and I send the puck his way. It’s a dance we’ve practiced a thousand times, a symphony of motion and intent as the Sabertooths weave our strategy across the canvas of the ice.
But then there’s a crash, a jarring hit that sends vibrations up my spine. I spin around just in time to see Jared slamming one of our rookies into the boards. The kid crumples, and suddenly it’s not about the game—it’s personal.
“Son of a—” My fists clench, the fire inside me turning my vision red.
“Keep your head, Mick!” Sawyer shouts, but it’s too late.
Jared’s gloating eyes find mine, and the line is crossed. I’m barreling toward him before I can think better of it, and we collide with the force of our shared history. Punches thrown, gloves dropped—this is more than a game; it’s a war.
“Break it up!” The refs are pulling us apart, the crowd erupting in a mixture of boos and cheers. I’m panting, my knuckles raw, the taste of iron on my tongue. Penalty box for both of us, a forced hiatus to cool down. But the flames don’t die; they simmer, waiting to ignite again.
“Focus, man,” Soren advises when I’m finally released back to the wild. “We need you sharp, not in the sin bin.”
He’s right. Dammit, he’s always right. The fury simmers down to a focused burn, fueling each stride, each check, each shot. Jared’s presence on the ice is a constant taunt, but I channel that rage into something constructive. I have to be better, do better. For the team, for myself.
“Nice assist, Davis!” The coach slaps the boards as I feed the puck to Sawyer, who rips a shot past the Jersey goalie. We’re in this together, every play a testament to our unity against the Jags’ onslaught.
My legs ache, my lungs scream, but I push harder. Every shift is a chance to prove that I’m more than my past, more than Jared’s shadow. My heart pounds in sync with the ticking clock, each second drawing us closer to the edge of victory or defeat. And I refuse to let it be the latter.
“Keep it tight,” I grunt to the guys during a timeout. “We got this.”
“Damn straight we do,” Soren replies, and I can see the same fire in his eyes that’s burning in mine. “And no one touches Jared, he belongs to Mickey.”
As the final minutes wind down, it’s a blur of motion, a clash of wills. The fans are on their feet, the tension palpable. Every pass, every save carries the weight of years, of rivalry, of unspoken words between Jared and me.
And when the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period, I’m gasping for breath, my body spent but my spirit unwavering. We’re not done yet, not by a long shot. And as I skate off the ice, I can feel the anticipation thickening, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.
“Nice game, Davis,” Jared sneers as he passes by.
“At least I’m not hiding behind my enforcers like a fucking pussy,” I shoot back, the fire still alive within me.
Sweat drips down my spine, the cold of the ice arena a stark contrast to the heat coursing through my veins. Overtime is a beast—a relentless, gnawing tension that sets my nerves on edge. The Jersey Jags are circling, hungry for the kill, but I’m hungrier.
My breath fogging in front of me as I crouch for the face-off. Time stretches, and at the moment before the puck drops, there’s silence—a hush that blankets everything.
Then, we explode into action.
I win the draw, snapping the puck back to Soren who slams it against the boards with a resounding crack. My muscles coil and release as I barrel down the ice. Sawyer’s got the puck now, weaving through defenders like they’re pylons. He flicks a look my way, and I know what’s coming.
“Here!” I call out, voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
With an arrogant smirk, Sawyer sends the puck toward me. Normally, he’d take the shot, but not tonight. This is the last goal attempt, and we all know I need it more than anyone else. Jared tries to reach me as the puck sails toward me. But Sawyer and the rookie keep him busy making it easy for me to catch the puck with my stick, settle it, and with every ounce of strength I have, I let it fly.
The goalie’s good—damn good—but not good enough. The puck hits the back of the net with a sound sweeter than any symphony, and the world erupts.
“YES!” My shout is primal. We’ve done it. We’ve beaten the Jags, and at this moment, nothing else matters.
“About time you stepped up and stopped making us do all the hard work,” Soren grins, clapping me on the back so hard I nearly face-plant on the ice.
“Yeah,” Sawyer agrees. “Now we definitely know you’ve been slacking all this time.”
The locker room is chaotic—cheers, laughter, the stink of sweat and victory. I peel off my gear, the weight of it leaving my body but not my soul. Underneath, there’s a new weight, lighter but no less significant—the weight of triumph.
We shower quickly, the hot water doing little to cool the adrenaline still pumping through us. I dress in my suit, knotting the tie with fingers that tremble with the adrenaline still burning through my veins.
