Page 125 of Cut Off
Coach points at me, Carter, and McDavid. “This is the unit. Get it done.”
I pull the glove tight again, just to feel the tension through my palm.
Regulation ends. Still tied.
Crowd is nuclear. Playoff spot on the line, and they all know it. I can hear a literal chant from somewhere behind our bench: “HOLT! HOLT! HOLT!” Feels fucking surreal.
Overtime. NHL rules—three-on-three, sudden death.
My heart is out of my chest, but my brain is ice.
Coach goes with us: me on D, Carter wing, McDavid anchoring the line.
We line up. The Seals look tired, but hate carries you a long way. Their captain wants to end this, you can see it in the way he squares up over the dot.
Puck drops. Away we go.
First thirty seconds, pure trading chances. We get a look—Carter wheels behind the net, wraps, but their goalie stones him. They come back, odd-man rush, and I have to sprawl, full-length, to get my stick on the pass. I knock it away. McDavid scoops it up, controls, circles.
Everything slows down. That’s the thing about overtime. It’s not faster. It’s slower, heavier, like gravity doubled.
McDavid passes cross-ice to Carter. Carter sells the shot, eats the D-man alive, then spins. I trail in high, looking for the open ice.
Carter sees me. Flicks it—low, hard, tape to tape.
I take it in stride.
The Seals’ goalie is squared, watching Carter. I know the angle—he expects a dish, not a shot.
I curl it onto the blade, feel my legs load. Then I rip it.
Top shelf, glove side, right under the bar.
Time crawls.
It’s perfect.
The net ripples. The lamp explodes red.
For a half-second, nobody moves. The puck falls to the ice, rolling lazy. Then the horn goes.
The building melts down.
We charge the glass. Brooks screams so loud I can see veins in his neck even from the bench. Carter slams me into the boards, mouth open in a whoop. McDavid hugs me, and for a guy who doesn’t smile, his face is all teeth.
But I don’t even see them, not right away.
I see Eli.
He’s at the glass, both fists up, face split by the world’s brightest grin. He’s shouting, and I can see the shape of my name, and for one hot second I think my heart might actually give out right here, right now.
Dad’s pounding his back. Mom’s crying, obviously.
But it’s Eli’s face that lands the hit.
He looks proud. Not regular proud. The kind of proud that matters.
I slam the glass with my glove, point at him, just so he knows: this was for you, kid.
