But I freeze. Because I want to see what she does.
And she doesn’t even flinch. She just offers a cool, professional smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
"Mark," she says, her voice calm and even. "I've already provided the team's official statement on our playoff readiness. Is there a specific part of 'we are confident in our roster' that you're struggling to understand?"
The reporter’s smug expression falters. He starts to stammer, but she gives him a single, dismissive nod and turns away, leaving him fumbling with his recorder.
A memory flashes—Emma, crying and screaming at a blogger in a hotel lobby, making it all about her. The contrast is a physical jolt.
Sloane runs her own plays.
She disappears down the hall, and the low-grade panic simmering in my gut solidifies into something else. Something hard and clear. Kowalski's mandate. The whispers. The wall she just put up. They aren’t just obstacles.
They’re threats.
And I’m done playing defense.
The locker room feels different tonight because I'm different. The familiar rhythm of preparation—shoulder pads, shin guards, the methodical choreography of getting readyfor war—but there's a new edge to it. A purpose that wasn't there before.
"Tank." Easton's voice cuts through my focus. He's lacing his skates two stalls down. "You good?"
"Better than good." The response surprises us both. He raises an eyebrow but doesn't push.
I tape my stick with deliberate precision, each wrap of black tape a promise. Kowalski's voice echoes in my head—Make your choices—and I have. The mandate was meant to scare me into submission, to make me back down and play it safe.
Instead, it's gasoline on a fire I didn't even know I was carrying.
The tunnel stretches ahead, and I'm aware of every detail with hyper-focused clarity. The ring of skates against concrete. The low murmur of preparation. The weight of the moment pressing down like atmospheric pressure before a storm.
I catch a glimpse of the press box as we emerge—auburn hair catching arena lights—and instead of pushing it away, I let it sharpen me. She's up there. Watching. And I'm about to show her exactly what happens when someone threatens what's mine.
The anthem plays. Twenty thousand people on their feet. The energy builds, and I channel it into something cold and controlled and absolutely lethal.
The puck drops.
And I go hunting.
Seventeen minutes in, Chicago's Torres builds speed on the forecheck, lining up our rookie Daniels behind the net. I see it developing—predatory veteran looking to make a statement on fresh meat.
Not today.
Every cell in my body recognizes this moment. This is exactly what I told myself in that hallway:I'm done playing defense.Torres represents everything—every threat, every ultimatum, every spineless bureaucrat who thinks they can dictate the terms of my life.
I angle my approach with fifteen years of controlled violence. Torres commits to his hit—too high, too late—and I arrive at the perfect moment with all the fury I've been storing since Kowalski opened his mouth.
The collision is devastating. Legal, but barely. Torres hits the ice hard, sliding into the boards with a look of genuine shock. The crowd explodes, but I'm not done. I stand over him for a beat—just long enough to make sure he understands the message—before skating away.
Touch my guys, and I'll end you.
"Beautiful hit, Tank!" someone yells from the bench.
Damn right it was. And it felt better than any hit I've thrown all season.
I'm locked in now, but not the way I usually am. This isn't the zen-like calm of pure hockey instinct. This is sharper. Meaner. Every play is personal because I've made it personal. Kowalski wanted to back me into a corner? Fine. But cornered animals are the most dangerous.
Second period, Chicago power play. They're moving the puck with crisp precision, looking for the seam that will crack our defense. I'm seeing everything three moves ahead—not because I'm calm, but because the anger has burned away everything except clarity of purpose.
You want to threaten my career? My choices? Try it.
