Two goals in.

Turner's Pov

The moment the referee dropped the puck, everything else that had been on my mind disappeared.

The argument with Coach earlier, the frustration from being blamed for my teammates' stupidity, and the irritation that had followed me all day faded into the background. Hockey has always done that to me. No matter how bad my mood was, the second I stepped onto the ice, my focus narrowed to one thing and one thing only.

Winning.

The crowd erupted around us as both teams fought for possession. The arena was packed, every seat filled with students, parents, and fans who had come to watch the playoff game. The noise was almost deafening, but after years of playing, I barely noticed it anymore. If anything, I enjoyed it.

Playoff hockey was different from regular season hockey.

The pressure was heavier, every mistake mattered more. One bad pass, one missed shot, one moment of hesitation could end months of hard work.

The opposing team came out aggressively, clearly determined to make a statement early. Their forwards attacked our zone almost immediately, forcing our defense to work harder than I would've liked. Thankfully, our goalie was already locked in.

The first ten minutes turned into a battle.

Hits rattled the boards as my teammates fought for every inch of ice.

Neither side was willing to back down.

I intercepted a pass near center ice and pushed forward, slipping around one defender before passing the puck to Mason. He fired a quick shot toward the net, but their goalie managed to block it.

The crowd groaned.

"Nice try!" I shouted as we turned around to defend another attack.

The pace never slowed.

By the end of the first period, both teams were exhausted, yet somehow neither had managed to score.

The scoreboard still showed 0-0.

Coach looked irritated the moment we entered the locker room. Actually, irritated was putting it nicely, the man looked like he was considering homicide.

"You boys planning on winning tonight?" he asked, a few of my teammates shifted awkwardly. "So start playing like it."

Nobody argued because he wasn't wrong.

We were playing cautiously, everyone was waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Coach pointed at us. "This is the playoffs, stop playing scared."

The room remained silent until he finally left. The second the door closed, Mason let out a breath.

"I think he wants us to score." A few players laughed.

I didn't.

Instead, I stood up and looked around the room. Immediately everyone became quiet, being captain had its advantages.

One look was usually enough.

"We're better than them," I said. "Start acting like it."

Several heads nodded. "Nobody leaves this locker room thinking we're losing tonight."

The response was immediate. "We're not losing."

"Damn right."

"Let's finish this." Now that sounded more like my team, the second period started with a completely different energy. Halfway through the period, all that pressure paid off.

A loose puck bounced into open ice after a failed pass from the opposing team. I reacted before anyone else, accelerating toward it while one of their defensemen tried closing the gap.

He was too slow.

I slipped around him and immediately found myself with a clear lane toward the net. I shot the puck straight into the back of the net, the arena exploded with cheers.

For a split second, all I heard was noise then my teammates slammed into me. Everyone was shouting. The crowd was on its feet, the scoreboard changed to 1-0.

Finally.

I skated back toward center ice with a grin on my face while Coach nodded approvingly from the bench. Our opponents knew their season was slipping away and played accordingly. They attacked relentlessly, forcing us to spend more time defending than I would've liked.

Then, with ten minutes remaining, they finally broke through. A shot slipped past our goalie and found the corner of the net, our side of the crowd fell silent.

The scoreboard changed. 1-1.

"Damn it," Mason muttered.

I agreed.

We had controlled too much of the game to let it slip away now, the next few minutes felt endless.

With less than two minutes remaining, the opportunity finally arrived. One of their defensemen mishandled the puck under pressure. Mason immediately stole it and looked up.

The second our eyes met, I knew where the puck was going. The pass reached me perfectly, I didn't hesitate to fire. The puck flew past him and buried itself in the back of the net, for a moment I simply stared.

Then the arena erupted.

My teammates practically tackled me into the boards while thousands of fans screamed around us as the scoreboard now read 2-1.

We had the lead again.

All we had to do was hold it.

The final minutes dragged by painfully slowly. The opposing team pulled their goalie in a desperate attempt to tie the game, but our defense refused to break. Every blocked shot earned a roar from the crowd and every cleared puck brought us closer to victory.

Then the final buzzer sounded.

We won.

The arena exploded with celebration as players jumped over the boards and rushed onto the ice. My teammates surrounded me almost immediately.

Mason wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "You beautiful bastard."

I laughed.."You say that every time I score."

"Because it's true every time."

The celebration continued around us while reporters and photographers began making their way toward the rink. I had just removed my helmet when a familiar voice reached me. "Nice game."

I turned and immediately sighed.

Liam Beckley.

The last person I wanted to see after a playoff win, Liam looked entirely too relaxed as he leaned against the boards.

"You sound disappointed," I said.

"A little."

"Good." He laughed, I hated how easy that came to him. The rivalry between us had existed for years. Every tournament, every championship, every ranking announcement somehow turned into a competition.

Neither of us could stand losing.

Unfortunately, both of us won often enough to make the rivalry even worse.

Liam glanced toward the scoreboard. "Two goals."

I shrugged. "Someone had to score."

"Showing off now?"

"No. If I was showing off, I would've scored three."

Several teammates laughed.

Liam rolled his eyes. "Arrogant prick."

"Confident."

"Same thing."

"It really isn't." The grin that appeared on Liam's face immediately made me suspicious.

"You know," he said casually, "your ex texted me after your first goal."

Several teammates immediately groaned. Three years ago, my girlfriend had broken up with me and started dating Liam less than a month later.

Most people would've been furious.

I had been annoyed for about a week before realizing she clearly wasn't worth keeping. Unfortunately, Liam never got tired of bringing it up.

"That's the best you've got?" I asked.

He blinked. "What?"

"You've been using the same insult for three years." Several players started laughing.

"Come on, Beckley. You can do better than that." I folded my arms. "If you're going to trash-talk me, at least put some effort into it."

The guys around us burst out laughing while Liam looked seconds away from throwing his glove at my head, eventually he shook his head and pushed away from the boards. "Enjoy your win."

"I will."

"We'll see each other in the finals."

A competitive grin appeared on my face. "Only if your team survives long enough."