Page 150 of Wild Card 13

For half a second, Carlson and I both reached. I chipped it past him and accelerated. Mase took off on my left. Simon trailed.

Their defense backed in, careful, trying not to give me the middle. The crowd rose in pieces around us. I could hear the pitch changing as people realized who had the puck.

My lungs burned.

Mase yelled for it. I glanced at him. The defenseman bit.

I made the pass fake as hard as I could without letting the puck leave my blade. The goalie shifted with it. The weak-side defenseman turned his hips toward Mase.

The lane opened. I pulled the puck inside, dragged it around the defenseman’s stick, and shot through the screen before the goalie could reset.

I knew before the light went on. For one full second, the entire world stopped.

Then the building came apart.

The horn blasted.

Mase hit me first, then Simon, then the rest of the bench poured over the boards and buried me against the glass. I could not breathe. I could not see. Someone’s elbow was in my ribs, somebody had a fistful of my jersey, and I was laughing so hard I almost choked on my mouthguard.

Northbend was going to state.

I tried to stand, but the guys shoved me down again, a pile of navy and white and screaming teenage boys who smelled like sweat and metal and the best night of our lives.

When I finally got my head up, I looked for her.

She was standing in the middle of my family with Ruth’s blanket twisted around her legs and both hands pressed over her mouth. Naomi was screaming beside her. Arlo had turned fully around and was yelling at Lucy like she had scored the goal herself.

Lucy’s eyes found mine through the glass and the bodies and the chaos. I winked. One simple moment stolen as chaos erupted around us.

The next half hour did not feel real. Handshake line. Section championship plaque. More popcorn cleanup. Coach trying toorganize us while everybody acted like organization was a theory invented by people who had not just won in overtime.

I wanted to get to Lucy. Instead, Coach caught me by the elbow as I came off the ice. “Media first. Then stay close.”

I blinked. “Stay close for what?”

His expression shifted. “People want to speak with you.”

He moved me toward the media platform near the tunnel.

A local reporter from Channel Nine stood with a microphone and a camera pointed at us. I had done interviews before. Nothing huge. Local paper. School features. The kind where adults asked what it meant to be a leader and I tried not to say something that would make Coach ban me from speaking in public.

My jersey was still damp, my hair plastered to my forehead, my hands shaky inside my gloves.

“Ty Burns, overtime hero,” she said, turning toward the camera. “Four-point night, shorthanded tying goal, overtime winner, and Northbend is heading to state. Ty, what was going through your mind on that final rush?”

I glanced past the reporter. Lucy stood with my family near the railing, scarf still wrapped around her neck, eyes bright. She looked proud in a way that made standing under the lights feel easier. I faced the camera. “Honestly, I was just trying not to mess it up,” I said.

The reporter laughed.

“We had numbers,” I continued. “Mase was yelling like he always does when he wants the puck, so that part was not new.”

Behind the reporter, Mase shouted, “Uncalled for!”

I grinned despite myself. “Their D bit for half a second, and that was enough. But that play starts in our end. Coach has been on me all year about not cheating offense, so I’m sure he’ll be thrilled I listened once.”

The reporter smiled wider. “You had an early turnover that led to Eden Prairie’s first goal. How did you reset after that?”

“My teammates,” I offered, and meant it. “Mase told me it was stupid, which was helpful in a very Mason way.”