Yeah. It’s going to be that kind of game.
Back in the locker room for final preparations, everyone’s locked in. Rodriguez is listening to music, nodding his head. Brody’s just staring at the wall.
“Alright boys,” I say, standing up. Everyone looks at me. “We know what this is. We know who we’re playing. And we know they’re going to try to make it personal.”
“It is personal,” someone mutters.
“For some of us, yeah. But we don’t play personal hockey. We play Puckaneers hockey. Fast, physical, smart.” I look at Brody. “We win because we’re better. Not because we lose our heads.”
“But if they want to go,” Dex adds, “we’re ready.”
“Damn right we are.”
We head out for the anthem and I can already feel it—the crowd knows what this game means. They’re loud. Energized. Ready to watch us either dominate or implode.
The anthem plays. Martinez is staring down our bench the entire time. Making sure everyone sees him. Making sure we know he’s here.
Puck drops and within the first thirty seconds I know Barrett was right.
This is going to be a war.
The first shiftmakes it clear how this game’s going to go.
Martinez is on me the second I touch the puck. Elbow high. Stickacross my ribs. The kind of cheap shit that doesn’t get called but hurts like hell.
“Still playing captain, Varga?” He grins when we’re tangled up in the corner. “Heard you were too busy fucking the staff to actually do your job.”
I don’t bite. Shove him off me, win the puck battle, move on.
But he’s not done. He’s never done.
Three minutes in, Miami takes a penalty. We don’t score on the power play because Martinez is out there shadowing me and every time I get near the net, he’s cross-checking me into the goalie.
The ref doesn’t call it.
“That’s boarding!” Barrett yells from the bench when Martinez drives me into the glass.
Still no call.
The game opens back up and it’s chaos. Fast, physical, everyone finishing checks. The crowd’s screaming. Both teams are pissed off and it shows.
Seven minutes in, Martinez says something to Brody behind the net. I don’t hear what, but I see Brody’s response.
“Fuck,” I mutter, already skating toward them.
But Martinez doesn’t fight. Just backs away, hands up, grinning while Brody gets two minutes for slashing.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Brody yells as the ref pushes him toward the box.
We kill the penalty. Barely. My lungs are burning by the time Brody’s back out.
Miami scores first. Some bullshit deflection off someone’s skate. 1-0.
I answer back four minutes later. Rodriguez feeds me a perfect pass and I bury it. 1-1.
The goal feels good for exactly thirty seconds before Martinez is back on me.
“Nice shot,” he says during the next faceoff. “You always this easyto read?”
