Page 205 of Rookie Attraction

“Nice,” Finn says as he skates past.

I tap my stick against the ice. No need for words when we both know what it takes.

Then our top line strikes, a perfect sequence that has the arena on its feet. Cross-ice pass, one-timer, and bar down for Makela. 1–0 Rush. Finn and I bump gloves at the bench and I don’t miss the flash of competitive fire in his eyes.

“We keep this up, they won’t get a single one.”

Finn nods. “That’s the plan.”

But Philly isn’t done. A questionable tripping call puts them on a power play, and I watch Finn skate to the sin bin, his jaw tight with frustration. I tap my stick on the ice as I line up for the faceoff.

We’ve got this. Stay focused.

Philly’s setup is textbook. They overload on one side, and look for the seam pass. I read it, keeping my position between the shooter and Sorensen, and disrupt every passing lane I can reach. When Jace winds up, I don’t hesitate. The puck cracks off my shin pad hard enough to rattle my teeth.

Worth it.

The second the penalty expires, Finn’s out of the bin, skating hard to my side.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” I keep my voice level, focused. “Titans are beyond frustrated, so watch out.”

And they are. I can see it in their body language, the way they’re forcing plays. Jace tries to thread a pass—high risk, high reward—and my stick is already moving. Clean interception and suddenly we’re transitioning the other way. Finn takes my pass, chips it beautifully past the defender, and Berg’s off on a breakaway.

The shot goes wide, but Philly gets our message, loud and clear.

Finn

Intermission hits, and after we hydrate, Range and Laflore give us the wind-up talk we need for the final period. Every player on our team is practically frothing at the mouth to get back out there and lock in this win.

Most of the third goes like the first: no one scores, but plenty of battles are fought all the same.

With three minutes left, Philly pulls their goalie, and suddenly six skaters swarm our zone. Between the fans screaming and my heart pounding, I’m ramped up and ready. I block a shot and Sel’s there to clear the rebound. We’re on the mark, working in tandem, and our rhythm doesn’t let up. I swear it’s not just training, it’s our psychic bond, something I’ve never had with any other person, never mind a player.

“Thirty seconds!” someone shouts.

Jace has the puck at the half-wall, and I know that look, the way his weight shifts, the angle of his shoulders. He’s about to try something creative, something that used to work when we were on the same team.

Not tonight.

Jace fakes the shot and tries to slip a pass across the crease. Sel’s stick flashes out, pokes, and the puck is loose.

I’m moving it now, corralling it, sending it up the boards to Makela. He picks up the puck so fast that no one can catch him, and when he takes his shot, it hits the back of the empty net.

Score!

2–0 Rush.

Sel

The boom of the crowd hits like a physical wave, rolling down from the upper deck until the entire arena is shaking. Those of us on the ice are hollering and celebrating, and soon, the rest of the bench joins us.

Finn reaches out and taps my helmet.

“Incredible!” he mouths.

I can’t hear Finn’s voice because of the chaos around us, but I smile and tap back.