Two-two. The red light behind me felt like a brand.
"Tanaka finds Eriksson alone, and just like that, Seattle's tied it up! Rees got caught, and Eriksson made him pay."
"That's a veteran play from Tanaka. He held the puck just long enough to pull Rees out of position, and the pass was absolutely perfect. Rees will want that one back."
I did want it back. The cold spiked hard under my skin—frustration, self-recrimination, the dragon pressing forward like it could retroactively freeze the puck out of the air. I slammedmy stick against the post and reset. The crowd had gone quiet, that particular hush that fell when momentum shifted and everyone in the building could feel the ice tilting beneath their feet.
Max skated past my crease on his way to the bench change. He tapped my pad with his stick—once, firm—and said nothing. He didn't need to. The message was clear:We've got you. Keep going.
The third period was war.
Seattle pushed. We pushed back. The hits came harder, the whistles less frequent, the kind of hockey that stripped away systems and strategy and left nothing but will. I stopped everything they threw at me—seventeen shots in the third alone, including a breakaway from Lindqvist that I smothered with a desperation glove save that left me flat on my back staring at the arena lights.
"WHAT A SAVE BY REES! Lindqvist had him beat—had him absolutely dead to rights—and Rees somehow gets the glove on it! Unbelievable!"
"That is a season-saving stop, Dave. That's the kind of save that defines a goaltender's legacy."
I didn't feel legendary. I felt like a man holding a dam together with his bare hands while the river tried to kill him.
Then Ember happened.
With six minutes left, the kid—twenty years old, barely a full season under his belt, all raw speed and terrifying fearlessness—intercepted a lazy pass at Seattle's blue line. He didn't hesitate. Didn't look for the safe play. He drove straight at the net with the kind of reckless conviction that made coaches age in real time and fans lose their minds.
Seattle's defenseman stepped up to meet him. Ember dropped his shoulder and snapped a shot that rose like it had beenlaunched from a cannon. It caught the goaltender's water bottle underneath the net and sent it spinning into the air.
Three-two.
"SHAW! EMBER SHAW SCORES! THE ROOKIE WITH THE GO-AHEAD GOAL, AND THIS BUILDING IS COMING UNGLUED!"
I couldn't hear the analyst's response over the noise. The arena was shaking—actually shaking—the boards vibrating under my gloves as eighteen thousand people screamed themselves hoarse. Ember slid into the glass on his knees, arms spread wide, his teammates burying him in a pile that looked more like a rugby scrum than a hockey celebration.
I stayed in my crease. Tapped my posts. Breathed. Six minutes was an eternity in a one-goal game, and Seattle wasn't going to roll over.
They didn't. They pulled their goalie with two minutes left, throwing six skaters at us in a desperate, suffocating press that pinned us in our own zone. I saw shots from everywhere—the point, the half-wall, the slot, bodies crashing the crease and sticks hacking at rebounds. I stopped three. Blocked two more with my chest. The cold sang through me, sharpening everything, and for those final minutes I existed in a state of pure, crystalline focus where nothing mattered except the next puck and the next save and the next breath.
Cole sealed it. An empty-netter from his own zone with forty-three seconds left—a long, arcing shot that slid the length of the ice and crossed the goal line with the quiet inevitability of a verdict.
Four-two.
"Armstrong with the empty-net goal, and THAT WILL DO IT! Colorado wins four-two, and folks, let me tell you what this means—"
"Dave, I'm looking at the updated standings right now, and—"
"The Dragons move into a Western Conference playoff spot!"
The second announcer's voice broke. Actually broke, like even professional composure couldn't survive the moment.
"For a franchise that was left for dead after the betting scandal—a team that was rebuilding from nothing, with a fanbase that had every reason to walk away—if the season ended tonight, Colorado would be going to the playoffs."
"Unbelievable. Un-be-lievable. Taranis Rees with thirty-three saves tonight. Cole Armstrong with a goal and an assist. Ember with the game-winner. And this building—listen to this crowd, Dave. Listen to them."
I could hear them. I could feel them—the noise rolling through the arena in waves, crashing against the glass, vibrating up through the ice and into my skates and my bones and the place where the dragon lived. My teammates mobbed me before I could move, bodies slamming into mine, gloves pounding my helmet, voices screaming.
We went for a drink. All of us, and I didn’t give a shit that I obviously made Cinder sit next to me.
Not that we were stupid. We were on the road again tomorrow, but tonight Cinder was safe, he was with me, and we were in the playoffs.
The bar was loud enough that no one noticed me slip away from the table. Or if they did, they assumed what anyone would—too many beers, too much celebration, the usual postgame bladder situation. Max was telling a story that involved hand gestures wide enough to knock over drinks, and Cinder was laughing—actually laughing, that rare, full sound I'd beencollecting like evidence of something good—and I didn't want to pull him away from it.