When I look back, Roman’s still standing there.
Alone in his suit.
Watching his team leave for battle without their captain.
I force myself to keep walking, to get to the bench where I’m supposed to be, to do my job even though every step feels wrong.
Later, he’ll sit in the press box and watch them from far above the ice. The media will speculate about his injury, his return, what it means for the season.
But right now, he’s just a man in an expensive suit, standing in an empty hallway where his team’s voices still echo off the walls.
My phone buzzes as I reach the bench.
Roman
Three weeks. Then I lead them properly.
I stare at the words, then type back with shaking fingers.
I promise.
Roman
I know, Moxie. I trust you.
The words blur through my tears and I have to wipe my eyes before anyone on the bench notices that the team’s PT is crying during the national anthem.
The puck drops.
The season begins.
And Roman’s not on the ice.
Because of me.
The game is a blur. We win 4-2, and the arena goes insane. The team celebrates on the ice, piling on Moretti after his thirty-seven saves. Barrett’s pumping his fist. The fans are screaming.
And when I look up at the press box, I can see Roman standing there. Not sitting with management. Standing. Watching. His handspressed against the glass as if he could get closer to the ice through sheer force of will.
My phone buzzes again.
Roman
Next time, I’m down there with them.
I know you will be.
Roman
Because you’re going to make sure I’m ready.
The trust in those words breaks something in me.
I pocket my phone and focus on post-game checks, on making sure no one needs immediate attention, on doing my job.
But I can’t stop seeing Roman in that hallway.
Can’t stop hearing the sound of his team leaving without him.
