Page 59 of The Overtime Persuasive

Two–two.

Tripp pumps one fist and lets the momentum carry him into the glass. The crowd pounds on the other side while Sawyer and Campbell crash into him.

I reach them last, tapping the top of his helmet.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod. “You hit the net.”

“You’re welcome.”

I laugh despite the adrenaline still snapping between us. We aren’t finished competing. Probably never will be.

But for the first time, the heat between us feels like it might burn in the same direction.

The second intermission passes in a blur of water, line adjustments, and Coach reminding us to stay disciplined––until we’re called back onto the ice.

The third period starts tied. Toronto drives the net again and again. With four minutes left, I get trapped in our zone for over a minute. My legs burn and my lungs scrape in agony.

Toronto cycles the puck low, forcing Ty and me to keep turning. A pass comes out front. I block the first shot with my shin, but the puck stays in. Their defenseman winds up from the blue line.

I drop again, and the shot hits my shoulder and falls in front of me.

“Go!” I shout, and thankfully Tripp is already moving.

This time, it isn’t because he’s abandoned the zone too early. He’s read the play. The second the puck hits me, he knows exactly where it will go.

I get my stick beneath it and send it up the ice, and the pass lands cleanly on his blade. Tripp crosses the red line with one defender chasing and another closing from the middle. Sawyer is pushing to catch him on the opposite side.

Tripp has the shot—everyone in the building knows it. The Toronto goalie squares to him.

At the last second, Tripp drops the puck back, and Sawyer is there. His shot hits the underside of the crossbar and goes in.

For half a second, no one moves. Then the horn sounds.

Three–two.

The bench empties around me as the crowd surges to its feet. Sawyer disappears beneath a pile of navy jerseys. Tripp hits him hard enough from behind to nearly knock them both down.

I reach the group, and Campbell grabs the front of my jersey.

“Great read, Snyder.”

I look toward Tripp.

“Hell of a pass, Snyder,” he says.

“Hell of a drop.”

His grin flashes before he turns back toward Sawyer. There’s still time on the board. Toronto pulls its goalie. Six attackers come at us while the Birdcage counts down every second like the building itself is holding its breath.

Thirty-one seconds remain as a shot sails wide. Ty pins the puck against the boards until two Toronto players dig it free and the puck comes through traffic.

With five seconds left, Owen drops and clamps the puck to his chest. The whistle blows with four seconds remaining.

We line up for one last faceoff. Campbell wins it back as the final horn sounds. Gloves smack helmets and sticks hammer the ice as we swarm Owen, who glides out of the crease with both arms raised.

As we begin our lap toward the tunnel, I look into the stands and find Eva immediately.