The second period belonged to Chicago. They came out aggressive, throwing everything at us, and despite Taz’s best efforts, they scored twice in four minutes. We were down 3-1, and I could feel the building deflate around us.
I called timeout.
“Listen to me,” I said as the team gathered around. “We’re fine. We’ve been here before. Two goals is nothing if we play our game.” I looked at Dante. “Russo, I’m moving you up to the firstline with Cole and Keegan. I want you shooting. Every chance you get, you shoot.”
His eyes widened slightly, but he nodded.
The rest of the period was ours. We pressed, we pushed, and with three minutes left, Dante made me look like a genius.
Cole carried the puck into the zone, drawing two defenders. Keegan streaked down the far wing. I watched Dante wind up, his form perfect, exactly what we’d drilled. The shot was going to be beautiful. I could already see it—
The cross-check came from nowhere.
One of Chicago’s defensemen—not the one playing the two-on-one, someone who’d been trailing the play—slammed his stick into Dante’s back with enough force that I heard the impact from the bench. Dante went down hard, his stick flying, his body hitting the ice and sliding into the boards with a sickening thud.
The whistle blew immediately. The crowd erupted in rage. And I had to physically grip the boards to stop me going over them.
“Stay down,” I heard Cinder shouting to him, already cataloging him moving, getting up, but my dragon was screaming with such fury that my vision had gone copper-edged.
The refs were sorting through the aftermath—the Chicago player who’d delivered the hit was being escorted to the box, Cole was being held back by two linesmen from going after him, and I was trying to remember how to breathe.
“He’s winded,” Cinder said after they got back. “Nothing broken. But he needs to sit for a few minutes.”
My dragon roared. Watching him get hit like that, watching him go down—
He let Cinder guide him through, and I was acutely aware of how close I was standing, of the fact that my hand was on his back supporting him, of the way his eyes met mine for just a moment before looking away.
The crowd gave him a standing ovation, and he acknowledged it with a brief wave before sitting down.
Two minutes. Chicago was down a man for two minutes, and we had to capitalize.
I sent out our power play unit, my mind already racing through options even as part of me was still tracking Dante on the bench, cataloging every wince that crossed his face. I watched Ash pick up the puck behind our net, saw him survey the ice with the calm he brought to power plays. Chicago was scrambling, trying to cover for being a man down, and their penalty killers were already showing cracks.
Ash moved the puck to Keegan at the point. Keegan held it, let the defense commit, then slid it across to Cole at the far post. Cole one-timed it, and their goalie made a desperation save that sent the puck bouncing into the corner.
Keegan was there first. He dug it out, spun, and found Ash cutting toward the net. The pass was perfect. Ash redirected it with his backhand, and I watched that puck slide through the goalie’s five-hole like it had been guided by divine intervention.
Goal. 3-2.
The building erupted. My hands were still gripping the boards hard enough as that was the only thing stopping me reaching for Dante. I wanted to pull him close, to cradle him too me, and I didn’t give a fuck that everyone would see.
If it had just been my own career right that second I wouldn’t care. I was done watching him get hurt, and as soon as this game was over I was going to tell him.
Everything.
Not about hockey, not about training schedules or shot mechanics or any of the professional things I’d been hiding behind for too many weeks. About the fact that seeing him with Odin Clark had made me realize what an absolute coward I’d been. About the fact that keeping him at arm’s length to protecthim was actually just me protecting myself from the possibility of losing another mate.
About the fact that watching him get cross-checked into the boards had crystallized something I’d been avoiding since the moment he’d stepped onto my ice: I couldn’t keep doing this. The distance, the professional boundaries, the careful control—it was killing me, and it wasn’t actually protecting either of us.
Because he was mine. I loved him and I was going to tell him.
I allowed myself one moment of satisfaction before refocusing. One goal down with a period and a half to play. We could do this.
I glanced at Dante. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching the celebration on the ice with an intensity that told me he wanted to be out there. Cinder was beside him, asking quiet questions.
The second period ended 3-2 Chicago. We’d clawed back one goal, but we needed two more, and I was running out of bodies. Max was in the press box, probably losing his mind watching this. Julian was at home under concussion protocol. And Dante—
I needed to talk to Dante.
