The big game against East Central came.
The stadium was packed. The scouts from the Blackhawks and the Rangers were in the front row. My father was there, sitting in his reserved seat, wearing his expensive suit. He looked like he was watching a business meeting, not a game.
The game was a war. By the third period, the score was 2-2. My lungs were burning, and my legs felt like they were made of stone.
"Simpson! Miller!" Coach Mike screamed from the bench. "Finish this!"
We hit the ice together. I caught Jax's eye for one second. I didn't need to speak. I knew exactly where he was going.
I took the puck behind our net and started the rush. I skated past center ice, drawing two defenders toward me. I saw Jax cutting toward the slot. I didn't look at him. I looked toward the right wing,
