Cole’s head snapped around. “First unit?”
“First unit.”
He didn’t ask twice. He grabbed Dante by the back of the jersey on his way over the boards and said something low into his ear that made Dante nod once, sharp.
I leaned back on the glass, and let myself watch him.
He looked smaller than the rest of them out there. He wasn’t, not really, but next to Max and Cole and the Chicago penalty-kill line, he had that lean, coiled quickness that read as compact. The black eye was vivid under the lights. The booth was still talking about it; I could hear the broadcast bleeding faintly from a monitor behind me.
“—and Russo getting first-unit power play time here, that’s interesting, Marty. Kincaid trusts this kid—”
“He’s earned it.”
He had. God, he had.
The puck dropped. Dante to Cole at the half-wall, Cole to Keegan at the top of the circle, Keegan faking the shot and slipping it cross-ice to Ilyin—and Chicago was chasing now, finally, finally taking it seriously, but they were a half-second behind on every rotation because they hadn’t taken us seriously the first ten minutes. Ilyin one-touched it back to Dante at the side of the net, and Dante didn’t shoot—he had the instinct, I could see him almost do it, the stick lifted half an inch—and then he slid it across the crease to Keegan, who’d shot low while the Chicago defenders were still playing catch up.
2-0.
Keegan turned and pointed his stick straight at Dante before anything else, and Dante shook his head, grinning. The bench stood up. Cole knocked his helmet against Dante’s as they cameoff, and I saw Max waiting at the door, glove out, the way he only did when he meant it.
“Attaboy, kid,” Max said, and Dante’s ears went pink even through the bruising.
The horn went a few minutes later. Chicago skated off looking like men who’d just realized they hadn’t shown up for a hockey game.
I walked into the dressing room behind them and let the noise settle. Twenty seconds. That was all I gave them—twenty seconds of gear hitting the floor and bottles squirting and Ash laughing at something Ilyin said.
Then I stepped into the middle of the room.
They went quiet the way they always did. Not because I demanded it. Because they wanted to hear.
“Forty minutes,” I said. “That’s all that’s between you and the second round. Forty minutes of hockey.”
Max was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his face still flushed from the ice. Cole was unlacing one skate and watching me. Dante was at the far end of the room, helmet off, his curls plastered flat with sweat, the bruise on his jaw looking even darker now that the adrenaline had pushed color into the rest of his face.
I made myself not look at him for too long.
“They came in here tonight thinking this was a coronation,” I said. “You saw it. Everybody in this room saw it. They had four days to convince themselves they were already in the second round, and you just spent twenty minutes telling them they were wrong.” I paused. “Don’t let them remember they’re a good team. Don’t give them a foothold. Don’t get cute, don’t get tired, don’t get even. You stay hungry, and you bury them.”
Ash banged his stick once against the bench. Quiet. Approving.
“Antoine’s running his mouth,” I went on. “Let him. He talks when he’s losing. Cole—”
“I know,” Cole said.
“You don’t engage. You score.”
“I know.”
“Renaud.”
Max lifted his chin.
“Your line eats minutes in their zone. I don’t care if it’s pretty. I want them tired.”
“Done.”
I let my eyes travel the room one more time. Took them in. Every face. Every man who’d held this thing together while I’d been falling apart in a leaded chamber twenty miles away.
