“Yeah. This is—”
But he was already moving forward, extending his hand to my mom with the same warmth he’d shown at lunch yesterday. “Mrs. Russo. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry we couldn’t get you a better result.”
My mom took his hand and held it with both of hers. “You played beautifully. That goal you scored—I’ll remember that for the rest of my life.”
Something in Max’s face softened. “Thank you. That means a lot.” He turned to Marco, to Lucia, shaking hands and learning names with the efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Then Anthony, who was staring up at him like he’d just met God.
“You’re the captain,” Anthony said, with seven-year-old certainty.
“I am,” Max confirmed.
“That’s so cool.”
“It’s a lot of responsibility,” Max said seriously. “But I have good teammates. Like your uncle.”
Anthony looked at me with new appreciation, and I felt something warm settle in my chest.
The rest of the team started filtering out. Keegan, still looking furious about the penalty. Cole and Phoenix together, as always. Taz, who crouched down to Anthony’s level and started explaining goalie equipment in a way that had the kid completely mesmerized. Ash, who shook everyone’s hands and then went to stand slightly behind Max that kinda confirmed what I’d noticed yesterday.
And then Coach came out.
Chapter nine
Turnover - Losing possession of the puck to the opposition.
Theron
I saw them through the locker room door before I stepped out—Dante’s family clustered in the corridor, his mother’s hand still in Max’s, his nephew staring up at Taz like he’d discovered magic was real. The team had been talking about yesterday’s lunch before warm-up, trading stories about Dante’s mother’scooking with the enthusiasm of men who’d been fed well and wanted everyone to know about it.
I’d been in meetings. Strategy sessions with the assistants, reviewing footage of Antoine Devereaux’s brand of manufactured chaos, trying to figure out how to counter a player who’d spent fifteen years learning how to make penalties happen to other people. I’d missed the lunch. I’d missed watching Dante with his family, missed the ease he apparently had when he wasn’t performing the careful, controlled version of himself he brought to the rink.
My dragon had opinions about that absence. Specific, persistent opinions that I’d been managing for two days with decreasing success.
I stepped into the corridor and made my face do what it needed to do—professional warmth, the version of myself that met families and signed autographs and represented the franchise with appropriate gravitas. The version that didn’t catalogue the exact distance between where I was standing and where Dante was standing, or the way his shoulders had come down fractionally when Max had praised him to his nephew.
“Mrs. Russo,” I said, extending my hand as I approached. “Theron Kincaid. I’m sorry we couldn’t deliver a better game for you tonight.”
She took my hand with both of hers, the same way she’d held Max’s, and her grip was warm and firm and demonstrated decades evaluating whether people were good for their children.
“Coach Kincaid,” she said, and her eyes went to my face with that same assessing manner. “Dante speaks very highly of you. Thank you for taking care of him after—” She gestured at his bruised face. “After that terrible thing.”
“He’s a tough kid,” I said, and meant it. “He’ll be back on the ice soon.”
“Not too soon,” she said, delivering a non-negotiable position. “Those bruises need time.”
“I agree completely.”
Something in her expression softened. She released my hand and turned to gesture at the two men standing slightly behind her. “These are Dante’s brothers, Marco and Nicky.”
Marco was older than Dante by maybe five years, broader through the shoulders, with the same dark eyes and a manner that suggested he’d spent a lifetime being responsible for younger siblings. His handshake was firm, assessing, the grip of a man taking measure.
“Coach,” he said. “Appreciate what you’ve done for Dante. The last few months have been—” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Difficult. It’s good to see him with a team that has his back.”
“He’s earned it,” I said, and watched something in Marco’s face relax fractionally.
Nicky was younger, closer to Dante’s age, with the same lean build and contained energy that suggested he didn’t sit still easily. His handshake was briefer, his attention already moving past me to catalogue the rest of the team still filtering out of the locker room.
“This is incredible,” Nicky said. “The whole thing. The suite, meeting everyone. Dante never—” He stopped, glanced at his brother. “We’re really grateful.”
