Page 186 of Slapshot Baby

His expression is serious now. "It never stopped being yours."

Then he follows me into the locker room.

The guys are scattered around their stalls, getting ready for the next session. Wyatt's retaping his stick. Theo's bent over his skates, tightening the laces. Easton's leaning back in his stall, scrolling through something on his phone, looking completely unhurried.

I stop in the center of the room.

The conversations taper gradually. Wyatt looks up first, then Theo. Easton puts his phone down.

"I'm going to say something, and I'm only going to say it once."

The room goes still. The hum of the overhead lights becomes audible.

"I've spent the last few weeks earning back a title that was mine before Hargrove decided to test whether I still deserved it. I've passed every test. Medical clearance. Conditioning. Private sessions. Film review. Every drill, every scrimmage, every evaluation they put in front of me."

“Tell them,” Wyatt shouts.

I give him a cutting look and he shuts his mouth.

“I'm done asking permission to lead men I'm already leading.”

Silence. Wyatt opens his mouth. Theo puts a hand on his shoulder without looking at him. Wyatt closes his mouth.

“Starting today, I'm your captain. If anyone has a problem with that, say it now."

Easton's lips pull up at one corner. "Took you long enough."

“About time,” Cole says.

“I had to beat him up to make him see the light,” Wyatt says.

Jordan walks to his stall and sits down. He picks at the stitching on his jersey until the C comes free in small pops of thread. He sets it on the bench between his stall and mine.

I pick it up. The fabric is warm.

Nobody says anything else about it.

On the next practice, the shift is immediate.

Brennan runs a full-team scrimmage, first and second lines rotating. On the opening faceoff, the center from the second line glances at me before dropping into position. I call the setup. He adjusts.

On the next line change, Wyatt checks over his shoulder, finds me on the bench, and waits for my signal before hopping the boards. It's a half-second look. Barely perceptible. But it happens on every single change after that.

Theo anchors the blue line. When I tap his shin guard twice during a stoppage, he shifts his gap control without asking why. Easton reads my hand signal at the top of the circle and relocates to the half-wall before the puck even drops.

Every faceoff, every positioning call, every adjustment flows through me, not because I demanded it but because the players in this building already knew where the current ran before I said a word.

Brennan watches from behind the glass. His arms are crossed. His whistle stays in his mouth, untouched, for the entire second half of the scrimmage.

After practice, I shower, eat lunch in the players' lounge, and review film on my tablet. The afternoon stretches out. I'm in the weight room when Brennan finds me.

"Walk with me."

I rack the bar and follow him down the corridor toward his office. He closes the door, leans against his desk, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"I called Hargrove after this morning's skate."

I wait.