Page 22 of Offside Angle

The bench goes wild. I’m on my feet, banging my stick against the boards as Jace comes flying back to the bench with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on his face. Cole nearly tackles him in celebration.

We’re up 1–0.

A few shifts later, a messy change leaves Jace and me out together on the back end. Roman is in net, looking completely unbothered like this is just another Tuesday practice. The Icehawks are pressing hard, trying to tie it before the period ends.

Their winger comes down with speed and cuts inside. Jace is half a step late closing the lane.

I see the shot coming and drop in front of it.

The puck slams into my shin pad and kicks toward the corner.

Jace gets there first, digging it off the boards and sending it up ice before Halifax can recover.

He skates past me as we reset.

“Thanks,” he pants.

I tap his stick with mine. “Keep your feet moving. You’re fine.”

Later in the period, during a shift change, I hop over the boards and drop onto the bench. I’m gulping water when my eyes drift toward the glass near the tunnel.

Santi is there. That camera is raised, and even from this distance I can see him tracking the action.

I stare at him for way too long. Then my gaze lifts automatically, scanning the stands until I find Lena and my parents. She’s on her feet, yelling something with my jersey on, my dad cheering beside her like a lunatic.

The contrast hits me hard.

I look back down at Santi, then force my eyes back to the ice.

Focus.

The second period ends with the score tied 1-1.

The Icehawks got their goal late in the period — a quick transition play that caught us a step behind. Their crowd went wild. Ours groaned. It’s the kind of game that feels like it’s going to be decided by one mistake or one moment of brilliance.

We head back into the locker room for the second intermission, the mood focused but a little frustrated. Damian doesn’t waste any time. He stands at the front of the room while we’re still catching our breath, helmet off, eyes sharp.

“We’re changing things up. They’re getting too comfortable through the neutral zone. We move our pressure up. Elias, Cole—get on their first pass faster. Don’t let them build speed through the middle.”

Elias nods.

Damian looks toward Viktor and me. “Mats, Viktor—close your gaps earlier. I want you activating more off the breakout. If there’s space, join the rush. Once we’re established in their zone, pinch when it’s there, but somebody stays high. I’m not giving them free odd-man rushes because you two suddenly think you’re forwards.”

I bite back a grin.

Elias points toward the door. “Make them uncomfortable. Force them to make decisions before they’re ready.”

Damian looks around the room. “This is our building. Our ice. Play like it.”

I sit there, taping my stick tighter, trying to lock everything else out.

The third period is not just aggressive; It’s brutal.

We come out flying from the first shift, and the rookies match our energy like they’ve been waiting for this moment their whole lives. We don’t sit back. We don’t protect the lead. We attack.

Over and over.

We pin the Icehawks in their own zone for long stretches, cycling the puck, throwing hits, forcing turnovers. Elias and Cole are absolute demons in the middle of it. Mid-period, they connect on a beautiful play — Elias draws two defenders and feeds Cole in the slot for a quick one-timer.