“Nope.” I catch Finn by the back of the jersey and haul him out of the scrum.
Finn fights the grip. “He touched Lex.”
“Refs saw it.”
“Refs are decorative.”
“And you are benched if you swing.”
Finn goes still.
I lower my voice. “Protecting your goalie is leadership. Handing them momentum because your temper wants applause is ego. Pick one.”
Something in Finn goes tight.
Then he backs down.
Good kid. Terrible brakes.
The Ridgebacks take the penalty. The Stampede takes the power play. I hold it at the top until the seam opens, then feed the back door. Colt buries it forty seconds later and slams into me hard enough to rattle my ribs.
Two nothing.
I turn toward the bench and see her.
Lower bowl. Near the glass. Dark blazer, notebook, no team colors. She stands apart from the local press pack, pen moving only when the play moves wrong.
Reporter.
A stranger, then.
And unimpressed.
I have seen plenty of reporters at the rink. Some watch the puck and miss the game. Some watch me and miss the team.
This one watches the space between things.
Finn’s temper. Evan’s jump. The way I spoke before a penalty could become a problem.
She writes after the quiet moments, and I want to know what.
That annoys me more than Tolland.
Midway through the third, the lane opens before the Ridgebacks see it close. Kowalski hits me at the line. Zach drives wide and drags the defenseman with him. The goalie cheats toward the pass that is not coming.
I go short side.
Three nothing.
Late in the third, I block a shot off the inside of my shin. Pain flashes white up my leg. I clear the puck anyway, kill the clock anyway, stay upright because a captain going down gives people permission to panic.
Horn.
Frost Bank Center comes apart.
I skate toward the tunnel, helmet off, sweat cooling down my spine and my shin already swelling under the pad. My teammates stream past me, shouting, laughing, riding the high of a shutout win.
Coach Sully catches me at the bench.
