I pop back to my feet, toss the puck to the ref. My chest heaves, sweat burns my eyes, but my hip holds rock solid. I could take a hundred more of those.
I steal a glance at the bench.
Eden’s staring at her iPad as if it holds the secrets of the universe. Not even a flicker in my direction.
Fine. If you won’t look at me here, you’ll damn sure have to look at me after the game.
Play resumes. I settle back into my crease, pushing everything else out. Puck movement, shot angles, traffic patterns. The game flows around me. Hits are rattling the boards, skates carving ice, sticks cracking together in the corners.
A slapper from the point. I track it through bodies, shoulders shifting left as it deflects off a shin pad. Glove save. Easy.
Another rush. Cross-ice pass, one-timer from the slot. Ibutterfly down, pad stacked, rubber pinging off my chest protector into the corner.
“Attaboy, Russo!”
My rhythm finds me. This is who I am when everything else falls away—just instinct and ice and the next save. Eden trained this hip, rebuilt it stronger than before. And if my hip doesn’t need her anymore...
Don’t think about that now.
Wesley buries an empty-netter in the final seconds, and the horn answers. Game over. We win 5–2.
The boys stream onto the ice, helmets rattling, gloves slapping backs.
“Beauty!”
“About time you hit the net!”
“Drinks on Alaska tonight!”
I lift my stick to the crowd, but it lands empty. Wins are supposed to matter. Not tonight. Not when she won’t look at me.
Frustration climbs. I don’t know how to make this right. Me and Leo going at each other wasn’t a banner moment. Two guys posturing in front of the woman we both say we’re protecting doesn’t help her out of anything.
I skate for the tunnel, peel off my mask, fall in with the sweaty, chirping line. I keep my mouth shut. All I want is to get home and rewind the last week, find the cut that keeps bleeding and stitch it closed. Ryan’s right. Leo and I need to sort it out and do something useful, not make it worse by cracking each other’s heads.
Cameras flash. Reporters bark questions we’ll take later.
I towel off, strip my gloves?—
And then I see them. The finance bros.
Suits and loafers, red-faced from the club lounge bar,lanyards swinging on their VIP passes. They throw stupid money at these seats just to get a whiff of us after a win, to snap a handshake they can brag about in the office on Monday.
I keep my head down, hoping to slide past, but they’re watching. These guys aren’t here for the game. They’re here for escape. Finance chews them up faster than hockey chews us. By thirty-five most are out, burned through, replaced by the next hungry kid. Different grind, same brutality.
One of them breaks from the pack, barreling at me, voice too loud. “Russo!”
His buddies hang back, phones up, hunting proof.
I slow because I have to. I put on a half-smile, extend a hand. His grip is firm, showy, for the camera.
“Hell of a game,” he says, teeth flashing. “Knew you’d make it big. Always told everyone you were a stone wall in net.”
The voice lands a beat late. The posture. The swagger.
Max Miller.
Older now, bulked up, designer cut. Same smirk that soured every bonfire.
