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So maybe it was time to follow it all the way through.

THIRTY-FIVE

Some nights the game just clicked and everything came easy.

I couldn’t explain it better than that. There were games where I had to fight for every save—where the angles felt a half step off, my reads were a beat slow, and I was surviving on reflexes instead of instinct. And then there were games like tonight, where I saw everything before it happened, where the net behind me felt small and the ice in front of me felt like mine.

Northern Idaho had a scrappy squad. But their top line had a tell I’d picked up within the first two shifts. Their center always looked at his target before he passed. Eyes left, puck went left. Eyes down, he was shooting. It was subtle—most skaters wouldn’t catch it—but I lived in those margins.

I settled into my crease after the first whistle and let my focus expand the way it did on nights like this. I tracked sticks and bodies, not just the puck. A good goalie reacted; a great one anticipated. And tonight, I was anticipating everything.

During a break in the first period, I glanced toward the stands. Sam was in her usual spot behind our bench, but tonight she wasn’t just with the other hockey girlfriends. Viv sat next to her, a smile bigger than I’d ever seen on her face while she talked to Sam. I’d never paid attention to how stiff Viv had always been, but seeing her so relaxed now showed just how much weight she’d been carrying on her shoulders her whole life.

I turned back to the ice and focused on the game, but the image of my sister and girlfriend existing in the same world I’d built here—the one my parents had never encroached on—made my chest puff up a little. My world that had nothing to do with Gordon Holdings and maybe I could keep it that way.

Foster won the next draw, and our top line cycled the puck deep. Drew carried it behind the net and waited for the coverage to shift before feeding Liam in the slot. Liam didn’t shoot—he faked the one-timer and slid it back to Drew, who’d looped to the top of the circle. Drew’s wrister was a laser, low glove side, and the Northern Idaho goalie got a piece of it but couldn’t hold on. The rebound popped to Foster crashing the net, and he buried it.

The second period was where Northern Idaho pushed. They came out in the intermission with adjustments—more traffic in front of my crease, more shot attempts from the point, and just trying to get bodies in my sightlines and take away my reads. I’d give them credit; it was smart and meant I had to work a bit differently, but I could adjust easily enough.

Their defenseman wound up from the blue line and I picked up the release, but there were two bodies between us. I held my position instead of dropping early, waited for the puck to clear the screen, and caught it in my glove at the last second. The arena reacted, but from my end it was just patience. I’d seen enough point shots through traffic to know that dropping too early was how you got beat on deflections. You had to stay tall and trust your eyes and instincts.

A few shifts later, their center broke in on a partial breakaway that he’d picked off an errant pass at center ice and had a step on our D-man. He crossed the blue line with speed, but I read him immediately. His eyes were down, which meant he was shooting, not passing. I pushed out of my crease to cut the angle and took away the bottom of the net. He went high, trying to pick the corner over my blocker, and I got enough of it to redirect the puck into the glass.

The kid was talented, and he’d be even better if he wasn’t so obvious about his tells. He stared at me as he skated past like he couldn’t figure out how I’d known.

I reset in my crease and exhaled. God, I loved this game. I loved the adrenaline and the rush of players coming at me knowing the only thing stopping them from a goal was me. It was a high I never got tired of.

Drew tapped my pads with his stick on the next stoppage. “You’re locked in tonight.”

I gave him a nod.

I was in the zone.

The third period was cleaner. We controlled possession, and Northern Idaho’s legs started to go. They’d spent too much energy in the second trying to crack me open, and now they were paying for it. Their shifts got shorter. Their passes lost zip. I could see the frustration building in their forwards—the way they’d shoot from bad angles or force plays that weren’t there because they were desperate to get on the board and the clock was working against them.

Their winger ripped a shot from the half-wall with eight minutes left. I tracked it off his blade and kicked it to the corner without moving more than I needed to. Our D-man collected it and sent it up the boards.

With four minutes left, they pulled into a timeout and I took a drink of water. The scoreboard read 3–0. Liam had added a shorthanded goal in the second that I’d watched from the other end of the ice. Liam had skated past the penalty box afterward and bowed to Drew, who was serving two minutes for tripping. Drew had flipped him off and laughed.

I glanced at the stands again. Sam was on her feet, clapping, and Viv was next to her cheering. Sam caught me looking and pointed at me, then cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled something I couldn’t hear over the crowd. I didn’t need to hear it. The look on her face said enough.

I couldn’t wait to get home and celebrate properly.

Northern Idaho managed two more shots in the final minutes. A wrister from the circle that I gloved easily, and a last-second slap shot from the point that I blocked with my chest and smothered before the rebound could go anywhere.

Then the buzzer sounded.

It had been a shutout. Damn, that felt good. The best nights were the ones when no one got a goal past me.

The guys piled toward me, and I took the helmet taps and glove bumps without saying much. Foster grabbed my mask and shook it, his smile as big as mine no doubt was. Our senior year was bittersweet. We loved hockey and knew we’d never play it at this level after this season, so every victory felt just a little sweeter this year.

I quickly showered and dressed before heading out to find Sam and Viv waiting in the hallway. Sam’s cheeks were flushed from the cold arena, and she had that bright, electric look she got after watching us play. Viv stood beside her, pride shining in her eyes.

“You didn’t let a single one in,” Sam said, sliding her arms around my waist.

“That’s generally the goal.”

She pinched my side and I caught her hand.