Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
It’s like time freezes as the last words sink in. We’re all standing on the precipice, ready to launch ourselves into the mania, ready to unleash with these fans.
Monahan steps back. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
And then every guy lets out a deafening cheer which, when combined, feels like it shakes the stalls. My eyes cut over to Juno in the wings, Evan beside her filming. Her eyes are on me and she doesn’t look away.
Patrick Rowe appears briefly at the doorway, and the room shifts before anyone consciously registers why. His tailored jacket is immaculate, posture easy, his eyes suggesting he’s already seen the whole picture and doesn’t feel the need to explain it.
“I won’t keep you,” he says, voice calm, carrying without effort. He takes a step forward, resting one hand lightly against the doorframe, gaze moving across the room. “This city understands grit. The fans out there are here because of the loyalty they already have to this team. Give them something to believe in, and the rest will come.”
That’s it. A few words without speech-writer polish. He nods once, steps back out into the corridor and disappears.
Arch exhales and mutters under his breath, “Short and terrifying.”
A ripple of laughter breaks out, tension cracking enough to let oxygen back in.
“That was fucking inspiring,” Boss says, as he walks by grinning. “I suddenly want to block shots with my face.”
I smile despite myself, pulling my gloves tighter, feeling the shift in the room. Not hype. Not nerves.
Resolve.
This city doesn’t want a spectacle.
It wants a team.
And tonight, we’re about to find out who’s ready to be one.
The team filters out of the locker room, walking the long hall to the ice. Every step we take, my heart beats faster.
When we emerge, the arena explodes with light and a thunderous roar. The crowd doesn’t ease into it—they detonate like a bomb. Green and orange ripple through the stands, jerseys blazing like they’ve always belonged here. Fans pound on the glass and the music booms.
I skate a lazy half circle, my eyes lifted to take in the stands, the people on their feet cheering for us. Say what you will about how competition and winning drive us, but it’s really moments like this that fuel our efforts.
We are nothing without these people and the good players, the ones who understand what a team truly is, never take that for granted.
♦
I claim my crease.
The game has been tight from the opening draw. Detroit came to own us—fast transitions, heavy forecheck and shots coming from everywhere.
As a goalie, I did my job well. I swallowed rebounds, killed angles and denied goals.
It’s late in the third, we’re down by one, and there are two minutes left.
Monahan leans over the boards and shouts at me, “Heads up.”
I don’t need the reminder. I’m laser-focused on the play at the other end, already anticipating the signal when he’ll call me in so we can have a man advantage. Calm settles into my bones, the kind that only comes from experience.
Ninety seconds left.
That’s the window. Long enough to change a game. Short enough to destroy one.
The puck stays buried deep in their zone, our first line grinding along the boards, bodies leaned in, sticks hacking and prying for space. That’s what the coaches are waiting for—solid possession. You don’t pull the goalie on hope. You do it when the puck is where it can’t hurt you.
I glance at the clock, then the bench.
The decision belongs to Monahan, but the execution belongs to me. In a building this loud, with the crowd on its feet and my mask sealing the world down to breath and heartbeat, I don’t rely on sound. I look for the motion. The signal we agreed on in camp.
And there it is.
Monahan leans over the boards, arm chopping forward, decisive. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
His mouth moves and I can read his lips well. “GO! GO!”
I explode from the crease, skates biting hard as I bolt for the door, head snapping once more toward the puck to make sure nothing’s turned dangerous behind my back. This is the most exposed moment in hockey—no safety net, one bad bounce from disaster.
I reach the bench and the door slams shut behind me. Suddenly I’m a spectator, heart pounding as the clock bleeds out.
Canyon Westfall, our second-line right-winger, is already over the boards where he quickly slides into the high slot to make it six-on-five. Carter drives straight to the net front, parking himself where cross-checks are currency. Halo circles high, eyes up, quarterbacking the zone, while Luca drifts into open ice along the left dot, waiting for a seam that might never open.
The crowd surges, sound crashing down in a physical wave as if they might will the puck across the line themselves.
From the bench, helmet off now, chest heaving, I watch the last minute tick away—knowing I’ve done my part, knowing the rest is trust.