Of all the reactions I'd prepared myself for, that was the one I'd been dreading most. For a moment, I stared at the floor between us. I thought about every opportunity I'd had to tell him. Every road trip. Every off-season workout. Every late-night conversation after tough losses and playoff exits. There’d been hundreds of chances. Maybe thousands.
"I don't know," I admitted quietly.
Tannen's jaw tightened. The disappointment in his eyes somehow felt worse than if he'd yelled.
Before I could stop myself, another question slipped out. "Could you have told me?"
The silence that followed seemed to stretch endlessly. Tannen blinked. Something flickered across his face. Maybe it was surprise, or confusion, or something else I couldn’t quite identify. For a second, it looked as though I'd asked a question neither of us knew how to answer.
Eventually, he exhaled slowly. "I don't know," he said.
The strange heaviness between us lingered for another moment before Tannen shook his head. "You should've trusted me."
"I know." Because I should have trusted him. I should have probably trusted a lot of people. Tannen studied me for a long moment before stepping forward and squeezing my shoulder. The gesture was brief. Solid. Familiar.
"I'm still your captain."
Relief hit me so quickly it was almost embarrassing. A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth. "Good to know."
His expression finally softened. "And you're still my idiot."
I laughed. The sound surprised both of us.
Just like that, some of the tension broke. There were still conversations waiting for us. There were still questions neither of us knew how to answer. But for the first time since yesterday's press conference, it felt like we were on the same side again.
For now, that was enough.
TEN
THANE
The arena felt different that night.
The crowd was louder than usual. Signs appeared throughout the lower bowl during warmups. Some carried messages of support. Others simply displayed my number, 14, in giant turquoise letters. A few fans stood when I skated past the glass and applauded.
By the time warmups ended and both teams cleared the ice, the energy inside the building had shifted. Sharper. Louder.
I waited in the tunnel with the rest of the starters as the names echoed through the arena one by one. The crowd responded to each player in turn, some louder than others. Briggs drew one of the bigger ovations of the night. Tannen's introduction earned an even louder reaction, and I found myself smiling despite everything. Of course it did. He was the captain. The face of the franchise. Half the city would probably have followed him into battle if he'd asked.
Then I heard my own name.
I pushed off from the tunnel and onto the ice. The noise hit me all at once. Cheers rolled down from every section ofthe arena. Applause followed. Mixed in among them were a few scattered boos. I heard all of it and acknowledged none of it. By the time I reached my position, the familiar rhythm of the game had already begun to settle over me.
The puck dropped.
For the next two and a half hours, hockey took over.
Vancouver played exactly the way Vancouver always played. They clogged passing lanes, finished every check, and turned every inch of ice into a battle. Nothing came easily. Every shift felt like work.
Tannen struggled from the beginning.
Nobody in the building would have noticed all the details, but I did. We've played together for years. I knew the rhythm of his game the way musicians know a familiar song.
Tonight the rhythm was off.
A pass skipped over his stick early in the first period. Later, a turnover at the offensive blue line led to an odd-man rush the other way. He won faceoffs, blocked shots, and kept battling, but frustration followed him from shift to shift.
Every mistake seemed to make the next one harder to shake.
