“YES COACH!” Luca’s response is immediate, full of that goalie intensity.
“Good! You’re in the crease!” Barrett’s voice rises. “MALONE! You ready to light the lamp?”
“YES COACH!”
“CARTER! You ready to throw the body?”
“HELL YES, COACH!”
The team erupts in response, clapping and hollering and pounding sticks against the floor.
Roman’s jaw is clenched tight. His hands are fists in his expensive suit pockets.
“RODRIGUEZ! You ready to dance through their defense?”
“ALWAYS, COACH!”
This should be Roman’s moment. He should be in there, responding to Barrett’s call, probably leading the team’s energy with that captain’s voice I’ve heard him use. Instead he’s out here in thehallway, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to memorize the sound of his team getting ready without him.
“ANDERSON! You ready to crash the net?”
The team laughs, pounds their sticks harder.
I can’t move. Can’t leave. Can’t speak.
Roman opens his eyes and sees me standing there.
We stare at each other while his team—his boys—get hyped for a game he can’t play. While they prepare for battle and he’s stuck on the sidelines.
Tears burn suddenly behind my eyelids and I blink quickly to keep them from falling.
This is my fault. My protocol. My decision to extend his timeline because he was stupid with weights, yes, but also because I want him healthy long-term and that means he misses this. He’s standing in this hallway because of me.
“I’m sorry, Roman.” The words come out broken.
He holds my gaze while Barrett’s voice continues calling the roster, the team responding with increasing intensity.
“It’s not your fault, Moxie.”
“It is though.”
“No.” He pushes off the wall, takes a step closer but not too close. Not here where anyone could see. “My shoulder’s fucked because I’ve been stupid for years. You’re trying to fix it.”
“BOYS!” Barrett’s voice rises above everything else. “WHO ARE WE?”
“PUCKANEERS!” The team roars in unison, and the sound is primal. Pure energy and brotherhood and readiness.
Roman’s eyes never leave mine, but I can see what it costs him to stand here instead of in there.
“Go,” he says quietly. “They need medical staff visible.”
“I don’t want to leave you like this.”
“Please. Let me do this alone.”
I nod, throat too tight to speak.
As I walk away, I hear the locker room door burst open, the teampouring out in a wave of energy and noise. Skates on concrete. Sticks tapping. Voices calling encouragement.
