I skated in to close the lane, angling my body to force the play outside, but the puck was gone before I finished the move. Quick give-and-go through the neutral zone, theirwinger cutting across with speed while their center filled the space I’d just vacated.
“Switch,” someone called behind me.
We were already late.
I pivoted, digging in hard, chasing the play as it crossed our blue line. Their entry was clean—too clean. No dump. No hesitation. Just controlled possession straight into our zone like we’d opened the door for them.
Vestergaard squared up in the crease, tracking, pads set. He collapsed. Save.
They cycled immediately, low to high, then back down again, forcing us to shift, to adjust, to move in ways that felt half a beat behind every decision they made.
I stepped into the corner to cut off the pass, shoulder dropping into Gret Hayes with enough force to separate him from the puck.
It should’ve ended the play. It didn’t. The puck was already moving again—kicked loose, picked up, redirected before my weight even settled back onto my skates.
“Clear it,” Cam barked.
I got a piece of it this time, stick angling under the puck, lifting just enough to disrupt the pass and send it rattling along the boards. It slid past the point, out into the neutral zone.
Relief came quick and fleeting. They were back on it before we could reset.
Shift after shift, it stayed the same.
We chased.
They controlled.
Every breakout we tried got pressured early. Every zone entry got challenged before we could establish anything. Their sticks were always in lanes. Their bodies were always in the right place.
There was no space.
No clean look.
No rhythm.
By the end of the first, my legs already felt heavier than they should have. Not from effort—from inefficiency. From having to fight for every inch instead of taking what was there.
We went into the room tied at zero, but it didn’t feel like it. Not even close.
The second period cracked the game completely open.
We lost the puck high in their zone—sloppy, forced, the kind of play that happens when a team starts pressing for something that isn’t there.
Their winger hit the line with speed, Hayes cutting through the middle lane like he owned it, stick down, calling for it without saying a word. The pass hit him in stride, tape to tape, and suddenly it was a two-on-one coming straight at us.
I pushed hard to close, angling in from behind, trying to take away the option, but he read it before I got there. Hayes shifted his weight, pulled the puck just enough to sell the shot, then slid it across at the last second.
Vestergaard dropped.
Too late.
The puck snapped into the back of the net with a clean, hollow pop.
1–0.
The building came alive. By the time we hit the bench, the noise pressed in, layered with momentum that wasn’t ours.
I dropped onto the boards, breath hitching, eyes scanning without focusing on anything in particular. And then—I looked up. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t think about it.