Chapter 140: Second Goal

​The stadium erupted into a mixture of stunned silences and roaring cheers from the travelling fans.

I stopped short near the hash marks, my lungs burning as I stared at the puck rattling inside the netting. They had caught us completely off guard with a perfectly executed, hidden tactic.

​Edward Stein glided past our zone, raising a hand to high-five his teammate. He didn’t gloat, but as he turned to skate back toward his bench, his eyes briefly met mine across the ice—a calm, steady look that acknowledged the chess match had officially begun.

​A heavy, dark shadow materialized right beside me. Reid skated up, his breathing deep and ragged, his jaw locked so tight the strap of his helmet was straining. He stared a hole straight into the back of number 11’s jersey, the raw, territorial alpha jealousy in his veins running completely hot.

​"They got lucky, Cap," Reid growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that sent a physical shiver down my spine despite the sweat cooling on my neck. "They won’t do it again."

For the next few minutes, the game stretched into a brutal, exhausting grind. The ice felt less like a rink and more like a battlefield as the Avalanche protected their single-goal lead with a suffocating, aggressive defense. Every inch of ice had to be paid for in bruises.

​Coach Devin was practically hoarse on the bench, screaming adjustments every time our lines changed, while Marcus stood rigid behind him, his eyes locked on the clock.

​With less than thirty seconds left in the first period, the tension in the arena was thick enough to choke on. My lungs were burning, my legs feeling like lead as I fought for positioning in front of the Avalanche net. The defenders were hacking at my stick, trying to crowd my space, but I anchored my weight, refusing to be shoved out of the crease.

​Twenty seconds.

​The puck squirted loose into the corner. Edward Stein lunged for it, his movements fluid and precise, but before his stick could even touch the rubber, a massive dark blur slammed into the boards.

​Reid.

​With a deafening CRACK against the plexiglass, Reid threw his entire massive frame into a monstrous, bone-crushing check, completely separating Stein from the puck. The hit was entirely clean, but the sheer, territorial violence behind it left the Avalanche captain momentarily pinned.

​Ten seconds.

​Reid didn’t hesitate. He scooped the loose puck out of the battle and fired a blind, lightning-fast pass directly through the slot, cutting right past two diving defenders.

​Five seconds.

​The puck landed perfectly on the tape of my stick. In one fluid, instinctive motion, I shifted my weight, dragged the puck to my backhand to evade the goalie’s desperate poke-check, and lifted it sharply into the roof of the net just as the horn blared.

​The red light exploded.

​The stadium erupted into absolute, deafening bedlam. Chleo and Chloe were likely breaking the glass in the VIP section, but all I could hear was the frantic, heavy pounding of my own heart as my teammates swarmed the ice, throwing their arms around my shoulders.

Through the sea of blue and silver jerseys, Reid pushed his way through, his eyes flashing with a raw, triumphant adrenaline as his large gloved hand slammed firmly against the back of my helmet, his thick scent of frozen pine completely enveloping me.

​Over the arena’s loudspeakers, the commentator’s voice boomed over the roaring crowd:

​"Unbelievable! With just five seconds left on the clock, the Serpents strike back! It has been an incredibly tough, physical game out there, folks. The Avalanche have been putting up a massive fight with that new transition look, but the Captain and his star rookie just answered the call! Now that we are tied up at 1-1 going into halftime, what will become of the second and third period? Don’t go anywhere, folks. Stay tuned!"

​As we skated off the ice toward the tunnel, I caught sight of Edward Stein heading toward the opposing locker room. He was catching his breath, adjusting his helmet, but he looked back over his shoulder at us. There was no anger in his eyes—just a deep, competitive respect.

​Beside me, Reid noticed the glance instantly. He deliberately stepped closer, his broad shoulder brushing hard against mine as we walked down the dark tunnel, his jaw set in stone. The first period was over, but the real war was just getting started.

Back in the locker room, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense during the intermission. We had managed to tie it up, but everyone knew we were skating on thin ice. By the time we walked back out to the bench for the start of the second half, the physical toll of the game was fully setting in.

​I sat on the bench, my chest heaving as I pulled my visor up. My hands were trembling slightly from exhaustion as I grabbed a fresh water bottle, squeezing it to force the cold liquid down my throat.

It was so much harder now that the Avalanche had changed their tactics. They were playing a psychological chess match on top of a physical one, and our current playbook was failing us.

We desperately needed a new strategy if we were going to survive the next twenty minutes.

​Beside me, the bench groaned under Reid’s weight.

​He was gritting his teeth heavily, the muscles in his jaw bunching so violently that the sharp line of his bone looked ready to snap. His eyes were completely bloodshot with adrenaline and a dark, simmering frustration, fixed entirely on the burgundy jerseys across the ice.

The clean hit he’d delivered to Stein before the buzzer hadn’t quenched his hot blood at all—if anything, seeing Stein smoothly recover and give me that respectful look had only made the territorial Alpha’s jealousy burn worse.

​"They’re trapping the neutral zone horizontally now," Reid growled through his clenched teeth, his gloved hands gripping his stick so tightly the composite shaft flexed. "Stein isn’t even looking at the puck half the time. He’s just watching how our lines rotate. He’s anticipating you, Cap."

​I swallowed the water, wiping my mouth with the back of my glove as I stared at the ice. "He’s reading my pacing. Because I’m playing the standard Beta template Devin drew up. It’s too predictable for someone with Stein’s hockey IQ."

​"Then let’s break the template," Reid murmured, leaning closer until his broad shoulder pinned me against the back of the bench, his thick, heavy scent of frozen pine flaring like a protective wall to shut out the roar of the arena.

His grey eyes snapped to mine, sharp and lethal. "In the second half, stop centering the transition. Let me carry the puck through the line. Let Stein think he’s trapping you, and the second he commits his defense to your flank, I’m cutting the ice in half."

​I looked at him, my heart doing a sudden, chaotic flip that had nothing to do with the pre-game adrenaline.

He wanted to shield me entirely from Stein’s radar. It was a reckless, aggressive adjustment, but looking at the fierce determination in his eyes, I knew it was the only wildcard we had left.