And now it was three hours before game four against the Grizzlies, and I was reading the medical report Cinder had sent me on Dante for the third time, when someone knocked on my office door.
“Come in,” I called, not looking up from the tablet.
The door opened and I heard footsteps—heavier than Cinder’s, the way someone who’d spent years in skates and still moved like they were wearing them.
“Coach.” It was Dmitri Zarov, our goaltending coach. Russian, early forties, built like a brick wall because that was what you needed to be to survive in net for fifteen years. “You have a minute?”
I looked up. His expression was serious in a way that made my instincts twitch. “What’s wrong?”
He closed the door behind him and crossed to my desk. “I heard something. From a friend in Chicago. Thought you should know.”
I set the tablet down and gave him my full attention. “I’m listening.”
“Chicago called up two players from their AHL affiliate yesterday. Markov and Jensen. Both of them are enforcers—not the skilled kind, the kind that exist to hurt people and don’t care about the consequences.”
My jaw tightened. “Go on.”
“My friend—he went to college with their rookie, Petersen. They still talk. Petersen’s not happy about what he’s hearing in the locker room.” Zarov’s expression darkened. “Word is, these guys were brought up with specific instructions. Target our top players. Max, Cole, Keegan, Ash. Make it hurt. Chicago’s comfortable with their 2-1 lead—they think it’s worth playing a man down if they can take out our first line.”
The copper in my eyes would be visible now. I didn’t bother trying to hide it, even though Zarov wouldn’t know what it was. “They’re willing to take penalties to injure my players.”
“That’s what Petersen’s hearing. He doesn’t like it—he’s a good kid, plays clean—but he’s a rookie and nobody’s asking his opinion.” Zarov leaned forward slightly. “I thought you should know before puck drop. Maybe talk to the refs, make sure they’re watching for it.”
“The refs won’t do anything until after someone gets hurt,” I said, my voice flat. “That’s how it always works.”
“I know. But at least if you’re expecting it, you can prepare. Pull guys before it gets ugly. Adjust lines to keep them away from Markov and Jensen.”
I nodded slowly, already running through line combinations in my head. Max was captain—I couldn’t protect him without undermining his leadership. Cole was our best forward—benching him meant giving up any chance of coming back in this series. Keegan was still furious about the penalty that had cost us game two.
“Does Petersen think they’re targeting anyone else?” I asked.
Zarov hesitated. “He mentioned Russo specifically. Said something about unfinished business from game one.”
The rage that went through me was immediate and absolute. My dragon surged forward with enough force that I had to grip the armrests of my chair to keep from standing up and doing something I’d regret.
Dante wasn’t even playing tonight. He was still injured, still recovering from the concussion and the ribs and the bathroom incident that these bastards apparently thought needed a sequel.
“When does Cinder clear him?” Zarov asked, reading something in my expression.
I forced myself to look back at the tablet, at Cinder’s careful notes and conservative timeline. “He wants him out one more game to be certain. After tonight, full practice resumption. He’ll be available for game five.”
“That’s good. The kid’s got skill, we need him back.” Zarov straightened. “I’ll let you get back to prep. Just wanted to make sure you knew what we’re walking into.”
“Thank you, Dmitri. I appreciate it.”
He nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
I sat there in the silence of my office, staring at Cinder’s report without seeing it, and tried to manage the rage that came from knowing someone was planning to hurt people under my protection, and there was nothing I could do to stop it except wait for it to happen and respond.
My dragon wanted blood. Wanted to shift, fly to Chicago, find Markov and Jensen and their coaching staff and make it extremely clear what happened to people who targeted my players. Mymate, the dragon corrected again, because apparently it wasn’t going to let that go.
I couldn’t do any of that. I could adjust lines, warn the team, make sure everyone understood that Chicago was coming indirty and we needed to be smart about engagement. I could talk to the refs, though I was right that they wouldn’t do anything preemptive. I could put my most physical players on the ice, like the Morozov brothers, when Markov and Jensen were out there, create some deterrent through the threat of retaliation.
What I couldn’t do was guarantee that no one would get hurt. That was the reality of hockey—sometimes people got hurt, and sometimes it was deliberate, and the rules were designed to punish it after the fact rather than prevent it from happening.
I picked up my phone and called Ignatius.
He answered on the second ring. “Theron.”
