I wanted to climb up to that press box and tell them exactly how ready Dante was, but that would have been counterproductive. Instead, I watched him take a few practice shots, watched the puck snap off his stick with the kind of precision we’d drilled for hours.
He was ready. The question was whether I was ready to watch him go up against Antoine Devereaux, who I could see on the other end of the ice, deliberately skating near Dante during warmups in what was clearly an intimidation tactic.
My dragon stirred with rage at that, and I told it firmly to settle down.Professional.I had to stay professional.
“You see Devereaux out there?”the announcer continued. “He’s definitely aware of Russo. There’s some history between these two that goes beyond just being former teammates.”
“Word around the league is that Devereaux was his mentor. This is going to be fascinating to watch.”
The warmups ended. Both teams cleared the ice. I made my way down to the locker room, where eighteen players were in various states of preparation—some sitting quietly with their eyes closed, others bouncing on their toes, the nervous energy that came before games filling the space.
I found Dante sitting in front of his stall, his head down, his hands clasped between his knees. I moved over to him, crouched down so we were at eye level.
“How are you feeling?” I asked quietly.
He looked up, and his eyes met mine. “Nervous. But ready.”
“Good. Nervous is good. Means you care.” I kept my voice low enough that only he could hear. “You’ve put in the work, Russo. You know what you’re capable of. Don’t let Devereaux or anyone else make you forget that.”
“I won’t,” he said, and I heard the determination in his voice.
I wanted to say more. Wanted to tell him that he was going to be brilliant out there, that I believed in him in ways that went far beyond coaching, that seeing him with Odin Clark had made me realize exactly how much of an idiot I’d been. But this wasn’t the time, and I wasn’t sure there would ever be a right time.
So instead, I just squeezed his shoulder once—brief, professional contact that still sent heat through my palm—and stood up to address the team.
“Listen up,” I called, and the room went quiet. “Chicago thinks they have us figured out. They think we’re going to fold because we lost Max and Julian. They think we’re going to be intimidated by their physicality, by their veteran presence, even though we’retied.” I paused, making eye contact with each of them. “They’re wrong.”
I saw shoulders straighten, saw jaws set with determination.
“We’re going to go out there and play our game. Smart, disciplined, aggressive when it matters. We’re going to support each other, protect each other, and show Chicago exactly what happens when you underestimate this team.” I looked at Dante. “And we’re going to welcome Russo back the right way—by winning this game and putting us in front.”
The energy in the room shifted—from nervous anticipation to focused intensity. This was what I’d been working toward for two years. A team that believed in each other, that would fight for each other, that understood what they were capable of when they played together.
“Dragons on three,” Varga called, standing up. “One, two, three—”
“DRAGONS!” The roar filled the locker room, and I felt it in my chest, in my bones, in the part of me that had been coaching hockey for decades and still got chills before games.
They filed out toward the tunnel, and I followed, my mind already running through line combinations and defensive pairings. Dante was on the second line with Ash and Connor who would support him, give him space to find his game without putting too much pressure on him immediately.
The crowd noise hit us as we emerged from the tunnel—eighteen thousand people in Dragons jerseys, plus a good number in Grizzlies, on their feet, screaming. The energy was electric, the kind of atmosphere that only playoff hockey could generate.
I took my place behind the bench, my hands already gripping the boards as the anthem played. I watched Dante line up with his teammates, his face composed but his shoulders carrying a tension I recognized.
The puck dropped.
The first period was a feeling-out process—both teams skating hard, testing each other, looking for weaknesses. Chicago came out physical, but cleaner than before. They’d gotten the message that the refs were watching after what happened to Max and Julian.
Dante’s first shift was solid if unremarkable. He made the safe play, moved the puck well, didn’t try to do too much. Exactly what I’d told him to do.
His second shift was better. He picked up a loose puck in the neutral zone, carried it into the offensive zone, and made a beautiful cross-ice pass to Ash that nearly resulted in a goal. The crowd responded, and I saw something shift in his body language. The tension eased. His stride lengthened.
He was finding his rhythm.
“Russo looking comfortable out there,”the announcer’s voice filtered through my headset. “That’s got to be encouraging for Coach Kincaid.”
“He’s playing smart hockey. Not forcing anything, letting the game come to him. That’s maturity you don’t always see from young players in their first playoffs.”
Chicago scored first, eight minutes into the period. A deflection that Taz had no chance on. We answered three minutes later when Cole drove to the net and jammed home a rebound. 1-1 after one period.
