Martinez gets five for fighting. Brody gets five for fighting plus the misconduct. He’s done for the night.
But we’re not done. Not even close.
Miami takes another penalty thirty seconds later—slashing Dex in the hands. Now we’re on a five-on-three power play with our best defenseman gone.
We don’t score.
Miami kills it off, and when they’re back to full strength, they come at us hard.
The game’s completely off the rails now. Every whistle is a shoving match. Every hit is borderline late. The refs have lost control and everyone knows it.
Rodriguez takes a roughing penalty. Then Anderson gets one for slashing. Then Miami takes two more—one for boarding, one for cross-checking Dex.
The penalty box is full. Both teams are cycling players in and outevery two minutes.
“This is fucking unbelievable,” Dex mutters during a TV timeout.
He’s right. The game’s more about not getting kicked out than actually playing hockey at this point.
Martinez is still on me every shift. Talking. Hitting. Pushing.
“Heard your coach is shopping you around,” he says during a faceoff. “Makes sense. You’re washed.”
I win the draw. Don’t answer.
“How’s it feel being captain of a team that doesn’t respect you?”
I skate away. But he’s under my skin now whether I want to admit it or not.
Period ends 2-2.
We’re exhausted, battered, and barely staying on the ice long enough to play.
Barrett’s pacing the locker room. “The penalty minutes are a fucking embarrassment.” He looks at me. “Roman—you’re wearing the C. Lead. Don’t let him drag you into his bullshit.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Everyone can see it.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“Third period,” I tell the team. “We end this.”
Third period startsand we’re down our best defenseman and Miami knows it.
They come at us fast, pressing the advantage, taking runs at everyone. We’re scrambling to adjust, trying to cover the gaps Brody left, but it’s like playing with one arm tied behind our back.
Martinez is still out there, still talking, still making every shift personal.
“Miss your boyfriend?” he chirps during thefirst faceoff. “Oh wait, he’s busy defending his wife’s honor. Must be nice having someone worth defending.”
I win the draw and skate away without answering, but my jaw’s tight enough to crack teeth.
Five minutes in, Dex scores on a beautiful wrister from the point. The crowd loses their minds and we’re up 3-2.
The lead lasts about ten seconds before Miami answers right back. 3-3.
The game’s wide open now—both teams throwing everything at the net, no one playing defense anymore, just desperation and exhaustion and sheer fucking will.
