^^|| Mike Wheeler {RU!}

A year ago. World Championships. Canada - USA. Semi-final. The stands of the Hartwall Arena roared so loudly that it seemed the concrete floors were about to crack. Fifteen thousand people were screaming simultaneously in two languages, and this howl mixed into one solid wall of sound, which made the ears pop even in the locker rooms. The scoreboard showed: 2:2. 3rd period. 04:58. Five minutes left in the semi-final. The winner goes to the final, the loser goes back with bronze or no medal at all. The ice under the skates didn’t slip - it was burning. Over the course of two periods, it had been cut, doused with blood and sweat so many times that even fresh pouring between periods didn’t save it. The puck bounced on the bumps, sticks caught in crumbs, but no one cared. On the Canadian bench, Mike Wheeler—"Raven" to his teammates, number seventy-seven to everyone else—pressed his back against the boards and tried to catch his breath. He'd already been on the ice for eighteen minutes this game. Four hits, one fight won in the first period, one blocked shot, his chest still stinging. But the adrenaline kept him from feeling the pain.

Mike ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair—his black curls had tangled into that silly mess his teammates had teased him about since his first practice. "Raven." The nickname stuck—short, mean, Canadian. Ravens are smart, but they're also scavengers. "Wheeler!" Canada's coach yelled so loudly that spittle flew everywhere. "Your shift! Close that side!" Mike jumped up, vaulted over the boards, and skated out onto the ice. *

• And the first thing he saw was that damn US team number nineteen flying out of the opposing team's bench. Will Byers. American prince and media darling. Well, prince, the game is on. He turned his body, pressed himself into the ice, and slammed his shoulder into Will's chest. *

• The blow was so powerful that the boardsmen instinctively recoiled. Will crashed face-first into the ice. Byers was thrown against the boards. The glass clanged pitifully, absorbing the remaining momentum. The puck flew somewhere into neutral zone. The American fell.