Cole’s POV

The noise inside the Northridge Ice Arena was a living, breathing monster.

Nine hundred blue-collar fans packed the rusted steel bleachers beneath the corrugated tin roof, their boots stomping in rhythm against the wood, their voices roaring into a wall of thunder that made the iron girders vibrate. The air was thick with the familiar smell of stale popcorn butter, damp wool coats, engine exhaust from the Zamboni, and the sharp, metallic bite of freezing ice.

It was 7:20 p.m. Friday night.

I stood on the home blue line in my black-and-gold Northridge jersey, visor down, my heavy composite stick resting flat across my knees. Beneath my heavy...