ROMAN
The locker roomthe next day feels different.
Not the usual pre-game energy—focused, controlled, everyone in their routines. This is tighter. Sharper. Like everyone’s wound an extra turn.
Because Jason Martinez is skating onto our ice tonight wearing the C for Miami.
I’m taping my stick when Barrett walks in, and I know from his expression this is going to be a speech.
“Alright, listen up.” He waits until everyone’s attention is on him. “Tonight’s going to be chippy. We all know it. Martinez plays dirty, always has. He’s going to try to get in your heads. He’s going to talk shit. He’s going to take liberties.”
Brody’s jaw is already tight from across the room. He’s been quiet all day—the kind of quiet that means he’s thinking too much.
“I need everyone focused on hockey,” Barrett continues. “Not revenge. Not personal shit. Hockey. We win this game by playing our system, not by getting baited into stupid penalties.”
His eyes land on Brody. “That goes double for you.”
“I’m fine,” Brody says.
“You’re not fine. Your wife’s ex-husband is on the ice tonight. You’re the opposite of fine.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can. I’m just making sure you remember you’re handling it by playing hockey, not by trying to murder him.”
“Can’t I do both?”
“No.”
The room laughs, tension breaking slightly. But Barrett’s not done.
“Martinez is going to target specific guys. Varga, you’re one. Brody, you’re two. Dex, you’re three. He’s going to try to make you react. He’s going to say things—” He looks at Brody. “He’s going to be a piece of shit. Do not give him what he wants.”
“What about what we want?” I ask.
“We don’t start it, but we sure as hell finish it.” Barrett looks around the room. “Everyone clear? We play hockey. We play hard. We play smart. And if Martinez wants to take stupid penalties, we make him pay on the power play.”
Everyone nods. Except Brody, who’s still staring at his skates.
After Barrett leaves, I move to sit next to him.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Brody.”
He looks at me. “I know. Play hockey. Win. Best revenge.”
“Exactly.” I keep my voice low. “Because the best revenge on Martinez isn’t punching him. It’s beating him. Making him watch you succeed with the woman he lost.”
Warm-ups feel normal.
We go through our drills, take our shots. Luca’s dialed in at thenet, tracking every puck with that intensity that makes him either the best goalie in the league or completely unhinged. Maybe both.
Miami’s on the other end doing their warm-ups. Martinez is easy to spot—big, physical, wearing the C like he earned it instead of getting it by default when their previous captain retired.
He catches me looking and grins. Says something to his linemate. They both laugh.
