Chapter 142: Offside!

Despite it all Edward Stein hadn’t given up. As the clock ticked down to exactly five minutes left in the game, the Avalanche captain rallied his top line for one final, desperate push.

​They caught us on a tired shift. Miller and Russo had been on the ice for a grueling two-minute cycle, their movements heavy with exhaustion.

Stein handled the puck at the blue line, feigning another rink-wide pass. Reid exploded off the wing to challenge him, his frozen pine scent flaring with territorial aggression, desperate to shut number 11 down for good.

​But Stein anticipated the hit. With a brilliant, split-second shift of his edges, he spun away from Reid’s checking lane, using the rookie’s own momentum against him.

​Stein didn’t shoot. He rifled a hard, low pass directly into the slot. The puck deflected off a maze of skates right in front of our crease, changing direction entirely.

Our goaltender threw himself across the ice in a desperate split, but the rubber puck squeaked just past his outstretched pad and trickled over the red line.

​The siren wailed, loud and piercing, cutting straight through the arena.

​2-2. The Avalanche had equalized with exactly five minutes left on the clock.

​The white-and-burgundy bench erupted into cheers, slamming their sticks against the boards.

I stood near the face-off circle, my hands resting heavily on my knees as I stared at the scoreboard. The entire stadium was wrapped in a suffocating, breathless tension. The easy confidence of our lead was completely gone, dragged into a dead tie.

​A heavy spray of ice announced Reid’s arrival beside me. He didn’t say a word, but the absolute violence with which he stopped spoke volumes.

Through his visor, his grey eyes were completely dark, fixed on Stein who was high-fiving his teammates. Reid’s jaw was clenched so hard the bone looked white, his entire massive frame trembling with a lethal mix of adrenaline, exhaustion, and hot, unadulterated jealousy.

​He had let Stein slip past him, and it had cost us the lead.

​"Five minutes, Serpents!" Coach Devin’s voice roared from the bench, snapping us out of the trance. "Next goal wins this damn game! Line change, let’s go!"

​I straightened up, tapping the blade of my stick against Reid’s shin guard to pull his focus back.

"Look at me, Reid," I muttered, my voice tight but authoritative as I forced him to meet my eyes. "Leave the mistake in the ice. We have five minutes to finish this."

The final minutes dissolved into an absolute pressure cooker. The scoreboard clock was ticking down, a cruel countdown toward the buzzer.

​01:12.

​The Avalanche were relentless, riding the massive wave of momentum from their equalizer. They kept the puck trapped deep in our zone, cycling it with a frantic, terrifying speed.

I was skating on pure fumes, my thighs burning like fire as I tried to clog the passing lanes. Beside me, Reid was a force of raw, desperate aggression, throwing his massive frame into blocks, his frozen pine scent heavy and frantic in the humid air of the rink.

​Stein orchestrated the attack from the blue line. With exactly one minute left, he saw an opening and rifled a hard pass down the boards to his winger.

​The winger gathered the puck, cut sharply toward the net, and fired a vicious, fluttering shot. Our goalie made the initial save, but the puck popped loose, bouncing directly into the chaotic crease.

​Before our defensemen could clear it, an Avalanche player lunged forward and shoved the loose rubber straight into the back of our net.

​The red light exploded. The white-and-burgundy bench leaped over the boards, screaming in celebration as the stadium clock froze at 00:54.

​My heart completely dropped into my stomach. A cold, suffocating despair washed over me as I stared at the floor. 3-2. With less than a minute left, we had lost it.

​But then, a sharp, frantic chorus of whistles blew.

​One of the linesmen was standing at the blue line, his arm crossed over his chest, pointing firmly at the neutral zone. On the bench, Coach Devin was screaming, pointing furiously at the jumbotron.

​"Offside! It’s offside!" Russo yelled from the bench, banging his stick against the boards.

​The referees huddled near the center circle while the entire stadium held its collective breath.

On the screen above, the replay flashed in high-definition. Before the Avalanche winger had carried the puck over the blue line, his trailing teammate’s skate had already crossed the threshold. He had entered our zone too early.

​The head referee stepped out of the circle and made the announcement over the arena mic.

​"After review, the play is ruled offside. No goal."

​A massive, deafening wave of relief swept through the arena. The Serpents bench erupted into loud cheers, and I let out a ragged, trembling breath, my hands resting on my knees as the ice-cold panic slowly drained from my veins.

We had been handed a second chance.

​Skating back to the circle, Reid stopped right next to me. His visor was up, his face covered in a thick sheen of sweat, his chest heaving violently. His grey eyes were completely bloodshot, fixed on the clock that had been rolled back to 01:04.

​"We got lucky, Cap," Reid breathed, his voice a rough, gravelly rasp. "Don’t let them get back in our zone."

​"Let’s finish this right here," I muttered, locking my jaw.

​The puck dropped, and the final minute was a blur of desperate hacking and defensive walls. But despite all our efforts, no goal came forth.

The horn blared, loud and definitive, signaling the end of regulation time.

​2-2. A dead tie.

​We skated back to the bench, the atmosphere thick with exhaustion. Coach Devin immediately stepped up on the platform, his voice hoarse but commanding.

"Listen up! We are going into a five-minute, sudden-death Overtime. It’s 3-on-3 out there. No room for mistakes. If we don’t score in five, it goes to a shootout."

​Devin’s sharp eyes scanned the tired roster before landing directly on me, then shifting to the massive rookie sitting right beside me.

​"Kain, Reid, Miller. You’re the first line out. You have two minutes to catch your breath. Go out there, exploit the open ice, and bring home the win."

​I pulled my water bottle down, taking a quick swig before looking at Reid.

The wide-open ice of a 3-on-3 overtime was built for a skater with his raw speed and power. Reid met my gaze, a dark, dangerous confidence slowly replacing the frustration in his eyes.

He reached down, his large, gloved hand firmly gripping my thigh under the bench—a hidden, heavy touch that sent a sudden jolt of warmth straight through my exhausted body.

​"Two minutes of open ice, Cap," Reid murmured, his voice dropping into a low, possessive rumble. "Are you ready?"