Blaze’s POV
The arena is deafening.
I've played in big games before—championships, showcases, arenas packed with scouts and screaming fans. But nothing compares to this. The energy is electric, almost suffocating, thousands of voices blending into a roar that vibrates through my chest and rattles my bones.
I scan the crowd during warm-ups, picking out the scouts in their neutral colors, notebooks ready. NHL representatives from at least five different teams, according to the rumors. Watching. Evaluating. Deciding futures with every note they scribble.
I push the thought away. Can't afford distractions. Not today.
Asher skates past me, stick tapping the ice in our familiar pre-game rhythm. Our eyes meet briefly—a flash of connection, a silent promise—before we separate for final drills. Whatever happens in the next three periods, we face it together.
The buzzer sounds. Both teams retreat to their benches.
"Alright, listen up." Coach Wellington's voice cuts through the noise, commanding attention. "We've prepared for this. We've earned this. Now we execute." His eyes sweep across the team, landing on me and Asher. "First line, you set the tone. Show them what we're made of."
The starting lineup takes the ice. I position myself for the opening faceoff, Asher on my wing, Jackson on the opposite side. The opposing center crouches across from me, eyes hard and hungry.
The puck drops.
The first period is chaos.
Both teams come out aggressive, testing boundaries, establishing dominance. Bodies crash into boards with bone-rattling force. Sticks clash over loose pucks. The refs swallow their whistles, letting the physicality play out. I fight for every inch of ice, every possession, every opportunity.
Asher is right there with me. Our chemistry clicks into place instantly—passes connecting, positioning syncing, the telepathic awareness we've built over weeks of practice translating seamlessly to game speed. When I drive toward the net, Asher is already moving to the open space. When he gets pressured in the corner, I'm there for the outlet pass.
But the goals don't come.
The opposing goalie is a wall, stopping everything we throw at him. Their defense is disciplined, collapsing into passing lanes, blocking shots, denying the high-percentage chances we've been practicing.
The period ends 0-0. A stalemate.
"We're generating chances," Wellington says during intermission. "We need to capitalize. Crash the net harder. Get traffic in front."
I nod, breathing hard, sweat dripping. Beside me, Asher is focused, already visualizing the next period. Our hands brush briefly on the bench—hidden, a secret moment of connection.
The second period starts, and everything changes.
Not for the better.
Jackson starts forcing plays. Taking shots from bad angles instead of passing. Holding the puck too long, trying to dangle through multiple defenders. Playing hero hockey instead of team hockey.
The opposing team capitalizes on his turnover—Jackson losing the puck at the blue line—and buries a breakaway. 1-0.
"Fuck!" Jackson slams his stick against the boards. "Bullshit call—"
"That wasn't the ref." I keep my voice low. "That was you forcing a play that wasn't there."
Jackson's head snaps toward me. "Don't start with me, Wilson."
"Play the system."
"The system isn't working—"
"We are creating chances. You're just not finishing them because you're trying to do everything yourself. Trust your teammates."
Jackson's jaw tightens. Then his expression hardens.
"I've won two championships trusting my instincts. I'm not changing now because you're distracted by your boyfriend."
The game continues. Jackson keeps forcing plays. We fall behind 2-0, then 3-2 after a brief rally, then 4-3 as the second period winds down.
By intermission, the locker room is tense.
"We're down by one going into the third," Wellington says. "That's survivable. But only if we play as a team." His eyes land on Jackson. "Every single one of us."
The third period begins. Twelve minutes to save our season.
I win the opening faceoff, feed Asher on the wing. We cycle the puck, moving with fluid precision. The crowd roars with every scoring chance.
Eight minutes left. Still down by one.
Then Jackson does it again.
He intercepts a pass meant for Asher—literally skating into the lane and stealing it from his own teammate—and charges toward the net alone. Loses the puck. The opposing team clears it all the way down.
"That was Asher's puck!" I slam my stick against the boards.
Something snaps.
"Time out!" I signal to Wellington. "Coach, time out!"
Wellington looks surprised but calls it.
"What's going on?" he demands.
I turn to Jackson. "You're sabotaging us."
"Excuse me?"
"Every time Asher has a chance, you cut him off. Every time we set up a play, you force something else. You're not trying to win—you're trying to prove a point."
Jackson's face contorts. "I'm trying to carry this team because you're too busy making eyes at your—"
"Enough." Wellington's voice cuts through. "Jackson. Is this true? Are you deliberately freezing out Carpenter?"
Jackson hesitates. That's all the answer Wellington needs.
"You have two choices. Play as a team for the next six minutes, or sit on this bench and watch."
The silence is absolute.
For a long moment, I think Jackson might actually choose the bench—might let his pride cost them the championship just to avoid helping Asher succeed.
Then his shoulders drop.
"Fine." Through gritted teeth. "I'll play the system."
"You'll do more than that." Wellington jabs a finger at his chest. "You'll pass to Carpenter when he's open. You'll be a goddamn team player, or I'll make sure every scout in this building knows exactly why we lost."
Jackson's face goes pale. The threat lands.
"Understood."
"Six minutes. That's all we need. Now prove it."
The huddle breaks. I catch Asher's arm.
"You ready?"
His eyes are clear. Determined. "Let's finish this."
Five minutes left.
Jackson plays the system. The difference is immediate—passing lanes open, plays connect, offensive pressure builds.
Four minutes.
Asher gets a breakaway, dekes, shoots—spectacular save, but the rebound is loose. I'm there, stick ready, but a defender clears it.
Three minutes.
The opposing team collapses defensively, blocking shots, running out the clock.
Two minutes.
Wellington pulls the goalie. Six skaters against five.
One minute thirty.
Jackson—of all people—makes the play. He draws two defenders toward him, then threads a perfect pass to Asher in the slot. Asher one-times it, the puck screaming toward the net—
The goalie gets a piece. But not enough.
The puck trickles across the line.
Goal.
The arena explodes. The sound is overwhelming—thousands of voices screaming, air horns blaring, sticks banging against boards. Asher is immediately buried under a pile of teammates, everyone shouting, everyone celebrating.
I fight through the mob to reach him, pulling him into a fierce hug that probably looks platonic to the crowd but feels like everything. His arms wrap around me, squeezing tight, and for just a second we're not hockey players in a championship game—we're just two people who fought through hell to get here.
"You did it!" I shout over the noise. "You fucking did it!"
"We did it," he shouts back, grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. "Together."
The refs blow the whistle, clearing the ice for the final minute of regulation. 4-4. Overtime looms.
As I skate back to the bench, I catch Asher's eye across the ice. He's still breathing hard, still glowing with the adrenaline of that goal, but underneath it all I see something else. Peace. Certainty. The knowledge that whatever happens next, he proved he belongs here.
And in that moment, I know—really know—that whatever happens in overtime, we've already won.
We're here. We're together. We're fighting side by side, exactly like we promised on that frozen pond when we were ten years old.
Same ice. Same team. Same dream.
Everything else is just details.