Sam hopped the boards. His blades bit into the ice. He didn't hear the coach yelling. He didn't hear his name. He just saw the silver stick painted on centre ice—the logo of a tournament that had started decades ago in a nearby farmhouse kitchen.
"Flames goal, number nine," the announcer's voice crackled. An assist. silver stick alvinston
The red light flashed. The horn blared. The bench emptied. Sam hopped the boards
On the bench, a boy named Sam pulled his cage over his eyes. His dad had driven him here before sunrise for practice. His mom had sewn the "A" onto his jersey herself. The rink was cold enough to see your breath, but inside his chest, everything was burning. but inside his chest