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)
Trust in systems.
Trust in teammates.
Trust that sometimes, the gamble is worth it.
The puck snaps from stick to stick, never settling long enough to breathe. Detroit drops into desperation mode, bodies flying, sticks extended, shin pads turned into shields.
Thirty seconds.
Halo digs in along the half wall, skates braced wide, shoulder pressed into a defender as he works the puck free with inches to spare. He keeps his head up the entire time—always seeing the ice, always calculating. He slips the puck back toward the point, then cuts hard through traffic, dragging coverage with him.
Boss steps into the lane and one-times it.
The shot is pure force—no finesse, just power—and it beats the goalie clean only to slam off the post with a sound so loud it cracks the air. The puck ricochets out to the top of the crease, and all hell breaks loose in the mad scramble for possession.
Carter dives headlong, body fully extended, stick stabbing at the loose puck as three defenders collapse on him at once. Gloves tussle. Skates scrape. Someone goes down hard. The puck disappears beneath a tangle of legs, then pops free again, refusing to cooperate.
Ten seconds.
The crowd is so loud, noise is no longer sound but pressure, a physical thing pressing down from above. Halo lunges, trying to pull the puck back inside. Boss chops once, twice—each swing a fraction too late.
The puck squirts loose, and for half a heartbeat, it’s there. Open ice and nothing but possibilities.
A Detroit player, half a beat faster, takes a desperate swipe at it and connects. The puck slides down the boards, hugging the wall, eating precious seconds as it crawls toward neutral ice. I lean forward on the bench, breath held, watching time slip through our fingers.
And then the horn sounds, a long, unforgiving blow signaling the end of the game.
Sticks lower, bodies sag and helmets tilt back as lungs drag for air. The crowd exhales as one—not disappointed, not angry, spent.
We didn’t get the goal, but we didn’t give them one either.
And that counts for more than people think.
For half a second, the arena hangs suspended in silence—that breathless pause I know well. The one that usually precedes disappointment echoed with boos. The shuffle of people already reaching for coats and phones, eager to beat traffic after a home loss.
Then it starts.
Not scattered clapping. Not polite applause.
A chant.
“WILD-FIRE.”
“WILD-FIRE.”
“WILD-FIRE.”
It rolls down from the upper bowl first, slow and controlled.
“WILD-FIRE.”
The lower sections pick it up, voices layering over one another until it fills the space, reverberating off steel and glass.
“WILD-FIRE. WILD-FIRE.”
The sound swells instead of fading, pulsing with strength. No one moves for the exits, and everyone remains standing. They’re trying to convey an important message before we disappear into the tunnel.
I look around the ice, and I’m not the only one caught off guard.
Boss glides to a stop near the blue line, helmet tilted back, eyes wide. Remy turns in a slow circle, stick dangling loose in his glove like he’s making sure this is real. Even the rookies—guys who should be thinking about mistakes and ice time—are staring up into the stands like they finally realized what they signed up for.
This doesn’t happen.
Not after a loss.
The chant keeps coming.
“WILD-FIRE.”
“WILD-FIRE.”
“WILD-FIRE.”
One by one, sticks lift. Boss raises his overhead in acknowledgment. Carter skates a slow arc, tapping the glass with his glove. Halo turns toward the crowd and gives a single nod that says We hear you.
Soon we’re all moving—circling the ice, not rushing, not celebrating, merely being present. Offering ourselves back to the people who refuse to leave.
I coast past the crease one last time, lift my stick in salute, and the noise surges again.
They aren’t thanking us for a win. They’re telling us they are all in.
When we finally peel off the ice—one by one, filing down the tunnel—the chant follows us all the way to the locker room.
“WILD-FIRE. WILD-FIRE.”
I don’t know what this season will become, but I know this much. Whatever this city is building with us, it isn’t fragile.
I step into the locker room, not surprised to see Juno and Evan there waiting for us, camera rolling. Our first game is worthy of documentation.
Juno’s eyes meet mine in quiet acknowledgment. I brace, wondering if she’s going to chase a moment with me. But she turns away and I’m spared.
CHAPTER 9
Juno
It’s late by the time I shut down my laptop and sling my bag over my shoulder. Patrick was kind enough to give Evan and me an office to work out of in the coaches’ wing, and I’ve started a ritual of running through the footage at the end of each day, flagging moments that might matter later before sending it to Marta to catalog. It makes for a long day, but it will keep us on schedule. It also lets me keep work a little more separated from home—not that the apartment I’m renting downtown is home.