Page 245 of Cross Check

Good luck, it says, and the wind gets knocked out of me.

I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life, and I’m ready to show the world what I can do.

With four minutes left in the game, our teams are tied. The crowd has been on their feet the entire last period, and every missed pass or goal that’s an inch too short elicit groans from both sets of fans.

“Coach,” Emmy calls out from the end of the bench.

“What’s up, Hartwell?”

“I want to be the one to take the shot if I’m open.”

“Tell me more,” I say.

“Saunders is going to assume Thorne will take it,” she starts, gesturing to her captain. “Which he will, except it’ll be a pass, not a shot attempt. I can come in behind the goal off the right post, scoop up the puck, and try to squeak it in under Sullivan’s knee.”

“Hayes will be there waiting for a rebound. Richardson is going to stay at center ice to try for a breakaway.”

“And we won’t let them,” she says. “They’ll think I’m going off the left side, which should leave the right open.”

“Let’s give it a try. Lewis,” I say, and our defender looks up. “Hang back with Richardson. Don’t give them an open path to the crease. If DC gets the rebound, I want us to anticipate that they’ll send it straight down the ice.”

The players huddle up, and I bite back a smile.

Emmy’s call is a good plan and exactly what I would’ve gone with. Thorne’s been the difference maker all night, netting our two goals and almost securing a hat trick. He’s going to have the defensive pressure on him, and drawing the puck away from him is a smart move.

The whistle sounds, and the teams skate to the face-off circle. My lungs constrict when we win the matchup and Thorne scoops up the puck. He’s cornered immediately, getting attacked from both sides. In an act of desperation, he slaps the puck along the boards where Emmy grabs it from the opposite side of the net.

Grant is the one to come at her. He goes for a steal that Emmy uses to her advantage, slapping the puck between his legs and skirting around him until she’s in front of the goal. With her braid flowing behind her, she rears her stick back and sinks a wrist shot that goes right past Sullivan’s blocker.

The players on the bench jump to their feet and grab each other by the jersey. On the ice, the guys surround Emmy, patting her on her head and knocking their stick against her. She beams, skating our way and accepting a wave of celebratory praise.

“What a shot, Hartwell.” I tug on her sleeve and look her in the eye. “Don’t let them retaliate. I want this moment to be about you, not whatever comeback they’re going to try to piece together.”

There’s still plenty of time on the clock, and I pace behind the bench. My shoulders stay up by my ears when DC tries an offensive surge. I gasp when Maverick lines up for a shot that looks perfect, but ends up wide right.

One minute is all that’s left.

I count each second, the hair on the back of my neck standing up as time dwindles down.

At ten seconds to go, I hold my breath.

At five seconds to go, Bethany lets out a yell.

At one second to go, I shut my eyes, the buzzer ringing in my ears.

We fucking did it.

“Holy shit.” Daniel shakes my shoulder. “Holy shit, Amelia. We did it! We’re playing for the goddamn Cup!”

Everything is a blur after that.

We line up and shake hands with the Stars. Grant squeezes my palm extra tight when I pass him. Brody pulls me into a hug, murmuring get what you fucking deserve under his breath when he lets me go.

Hats and T-shirts are distributed and photos are taken. The Prince of Wales Trophy is presented to us but we keep our distance, not wanting any curses that might follow us to the next series. A microphone gets shoved in my face and I talk with ESPN, mentioning the importance of this milestone and what it means for an expansion team to make it as far as we have.

When the noise dies down, I give Emmy a hug.

“Where’s Miller?” I ask, and she points to the Stars’ bench.