Page 154 of Slapshot Baby

"Four for five on faceoffs and that last snipe was disgusting. If Brennan writes anything on that clipboard besides 'give him back the letter,' I'm stealing it."

"You're cheating to your forehand again. Third shift, second zone entry."

"I wasn't."

"You were. And on the cycle before that."

He scowls. "You're counting my forehand touches now? That's creepy, Cap."

"Don't call me that."

Wyatt blinks, then recovers with a grin.

“Creepy?” He shrugs. “Force of habit and it’s the truth, Cap. One of us has got to keep you humble."

I tap his shin pad with my stick. "Fix the forehand."

When Brennan blows the final whistle, my lungs feel scraped raw and my thighs are shaking under my pads.

The locker room settles into its post-practice noise, sticks clattering into stalls. Tape getting stripped.

Wyatt showing Theo something on his phone that makes Theo close his eyes in what looks like physical pain. Easton sits half-undressed, staring at the wall with detached focus. Jordan is across the room, unlacing his skates.

I'm pulling my jersey over my head when the door opens.

Hargrove walks in wearing a charcoal suit. The conversations drop to murmurs. Wyatt pockets his phone.

Hargrove plants himself in the center of the room, feet apart, hands clasped. His eyes sweep the stalls.

"Gentlemen, a quick word."

I set the jersey down slowly.

"As you know, we've been evaluating leadership structure heading into the season. Kai's recovery has been outstanding. His play this week speaks for itself, and everyone in this room knows what he brings to the group."

My stomach pulls tight. There’s going to be a ‘but,’ I can tell.

"But we need stability at the top of the roster as we open the season. So for the opener and the foreseeable stretch after, Jordan Maddox will wear the C."

Wyatt's mouth opens then closes. His freckled face cycles between fury and disbelief. Theo shifts on the bench, his massive frame going very still. Easton doesn't move at all, doesn't blink, as if he’s forcefully holding himself.

Hargrove says more after that. Words about evaluation periods, transition, earning, the team's best interest. I stop hearing them after "Jordan Maddox will wear the C."

The blood in my ears is too loud.

My hands hang between my knees. I study my calloused palms, the tape residue on the left ring finger. These hands have held every trophy this franchise owns. They’ve lifted the cup above my head while thousands of people screamed my name.

Now they're sitting empty in a locker room while a man in a suit reassigns the only identity I have left.

My face stays locked.

Flat. Composed. The expression that's gotten me through years of professional hockey. Blown leads. Brutal losses that stung for weeks. Every moment when the last thing I could afford was letting anyone see what I was feeling.

It's second nature by now.

But underneath it, I'm breaking.

No. I'm fucking shattering.