Page 14 of Home of the Brave

Not everyone was friends, despite the weeks spent together. Everyone set aside personal feuds for the sake of our nation, but they re-emerged the second the regular NHL season picked up after the break.

Playoffs had been brutal this year, and I couldn’t help but smirk at the bruises and black eyes of the players from the teams that faced off for the Stanley Cup just a few days ago.

Tensions were still high, and while we were all here for a united purpose, egos weren’t suppressed like they were for the global stage.

Once the cameras were on, things would mellow out, but in the ballroom, you could end up accidentally catching a right hook if you weren’t careful.

“This is fun,” Amelia plastered on a fake smile as she took in the obvious tension.

“It hasn’t even started yet,” Hartman leaned back in his chair, carefree as one of the few neutral men in the room. He was annoyingly diplomatic as our Utah captain, and alternate captain for this team. He didn’t hold grudges or keep a tally of illegal hits like others.

Schultz sneered at the table next to us before glaring down at his plate after a quick shoulder squeeze from Abrams.

“Dante,” Schultz growled. “Does he have to be so close? Can’t they find a rock for him to crawl under? No one should have to look at him.”

I didn’t disagree. He was one of the filthiest players in the league, yet somehow got an invitation to not only this tournament but the Olympics. Even when we were all on the same team, you couldn’t help but hate him.

Dante was selfish. Dirty. Played like he was the most important person on the ice with complete disregard for his teammates.

He was also a fan favorite.

Unfortunately, people liked fights. They liked watching us get slammed into the glass or punched in the face.

The league knew it. The networks knew it.

Yes, fighting was an inevitable fact of hockey.

But there were rules, mostly unwritten, about how things should be handled. Moral guidelines.

Dante Leinecker followed none of them.

“Ignore him,” I told Schultz. He had to crane his neck to see him, so it would be easy. I, on the other hand, had the unfortunate vantage of his ugly mug blocking my view of the stage.

Season before last, he came at me, without the puck, and swept one leg out before slamming me into the net. He landed on me, pinning one knee at an unnatural angle, and I was only able to get one solid punch in before my guys pulled him off me and got in a few more shots before the referees intervened.

The unprompted attack cost me three weeks. Three weeks of painful rehabilitation where I imagined his ugly face as I pushed through.

I hated him.

And once again, we were on the same team.

“What’s the fee for injuring a teammate?” I whispered to Hartman.

He smirked. “No more than ten grand for the first offense.”

“Worth it,” I noted.

We managed to make it through the meal without any fights and were moved along, not unlike cattle, to another room for just the Stars where our coaches were waiting for us in front of several long tables.

“Are we back in school?” Schultz whispered.

Hartman shushed him and moved us forward so we could be in the front row as the coaches spent the next few hours discussing our lines and rotations, strategies, and what to expect over the next two weeks.

It was mind-numbing, but necessary. I just wished I’d mastered the ability of sleeping with my eyes open, since so much of it wasn’t exactly relevant to me.

“Come on,” Schultz slapped my shoulder, and I realized everyone was standing.

“It’s over?” I rubbed the back of my neck.