I landed on Dante last. Just for a second. He met my eyes and the corner of his mouth did that tiny thing again, the professional twitch, the one only I knew how to read.
I’m here, it said.I’m fine.
I dragged my gaze away.
“Forty minutes,” I said again. “Let’s go take it from them.”
The room came up off the benches with a roar.
The second period started with Chicago sending out Markov and Jensen—their two biggest bodies, the guys they wheeled out when they wanted to send a message like they had before.
They lined up against Dante’s line.
I felt my jaw tighten. Felt my dragon stir beneath my ribs, a low rumble of protective fury that I had to actively push down. They were trying to intimidate him. Trying to make him think twice about going into corners, about battling for loose pucks, about doing all the things that had made him dangerous in the first period.
It didn’t work.
The first time Markov tried to line him up along the boards, Dante slipped the check so smoothly it looked choreographed.He was out and gone before Markov could adjust, and I watched Markov’s face register confusion before he lumbered after him.
The second time, Jensen tried to catch him with a hip check at center ice. Dante saw it coming from three strides out—I could tell by the way his shoulders shifted—and he cut inside so sharply that Jensen hit nothing but air and nearly fell over his own skates.
“Russo making those veteran defenders look foolish tonight,” the play-by-play announcer’s voice filtered through the arena speakers during a stoppage.“That’s twice now he’s made them miss.”
“Kid’s got eyes in the back of his head,”Marty replied.“And he’s quick. You can’t teach that kind of acceleration.”
Antoine was on the ice for the next shift, and I watched him track Dante across the neutral zone with an intensity that had nothing to do with hockey. This was personal now.
Dante picked up a loose puck behind the net and Antoine closed on him hard, stick high, trying to pin him against the glass. But Dante was already moving, protecting the puck with his body, and when Antoine reached—overcommitted, too eager—Dante spun away clean and fed it up to Cole for a breakout.
Antoine slammed his stick against the boards in frustration.
Two minutes later it happened again. Dante stripped the puck off Antoine in the neutral zone—just reached in and took it like Antoine had handed it to him—and I watched Antoine’s face go red even from across the ice. He chased Dante into the offensive zone, and when the whistle blew, he was still chirping, still trying to get in his head.
Dante skated to the bench without looking at him once.
“You know,”Pat said during the next commercial break, his voice carrying that tone announcers used when they were being diplomatic,“it must be difficult for Devereux to watchRusso develop like this. He spent a lot of time working with the kid in Chicago, teaching him the finer points of the game.”
“Absolutely,”Marty agreed, and there was something in his voice that suggested he knew exactly what he was implying.“Devereux was very generous with his time, very patient. And now we’re seeing all those skills come together. The acceleration, the edge work, the ability to read the play—those are things Russo learned from veterans like Devereux.”
“Though I have to say, Marty, it looks like the student might be outpacing the teacher tonight.”
“It does look that way, doesn’t it?”
I bit back a smile.
Five minutes into the period, Antoine tried his signature move—the one where he’d lean into contact, then throw himself backward at the last second and sell it like he’d been tripped. He’d drawn probably fifty penalties with it over his career.
He tried it on Dante.
Came in along the boards, let Dante get close, then went down like he’d been shot. His arms flew up, his stick clattered away, and he slid dramatically toward the corner while looking back at the ref with an expression of pure outrage.
The ref didn’t raise his arm.
Antoine stayed down for a beat, waiting, and when nothing happened, he pushed himself up and stared at the official with his hands spread in awhat the hellgesture.
The ref just shook his head and pointed for the play to continue.
I watched Antoine’s face go through several emotions in rapid succession—confusion, anger, humiliation. He skated back to the bench and said something sharp to his coach, gesturing toward the ice.
