She obeys.Some of the white leaves her knuckles.
“You want to see the room between periods?”Finn asks.“Too loud out here.”
Her eyes jump to the locker room door—noise, bodies, sweat, adrenaline—and then back to the rink—open space, clear sight lines, exits.She shakes her head.“Here.”
Kael nods.“Here is fine.”He angles his body to block the tunnel view, not her view.He never traps.That’s the difference between a captain and a cop.
I study Section 118 while pretending I’m not.Nothing.Just the churn of intermission—the beer snake starting four rows up, a dad wiping ketchup off a kid’s cheek, a girl in a foam finger taking a selfie with two friends who’ll post it with the caption game nightttt.No man in a cap.No wrong stillness.Doesn’t matter.The wire stays tight in my chest.
A runner from ops jogs over, tablet in hand.He looks to Kael first—rank, habit—and then to Wren because this is her call.“Two angles,” he says, breathing hard.“Caught a tall subject near 118 around 19:12.Lost him at the horn when bodies stood.Want to see?”
Wren hesitates.I hate that the decision sits on her, but making it for her builds the wrong kind of cage.
She nods.
The still is grainy.A slice of face, brim of a knit cap, jawline turned more toward the bench than the ice.Eyes in shadow.The second still is a shoulder and a profile, half turned away.Could be anyone.Could be a ghost with a credit limit.
Wren’s breath snags.Not panic.Recognition that refuses to make a declaration.
“Could be him,” she says.
“Could be,” I echo, because I won’t give a maybe the power of a yes.
Kael’s jaw flexes once.“Ushers watch exits on that side.No approach unless he escalates.If you see him again, point; don’t move.”
The runner nods, vanishes.
Finn touches Wren’s wrist, barely there.“You want me to stay off the top power-play unit and keep the bench glued?”
She shakes her head fast.“No.You play.”
“Then you text if you even sneeze wrong,” he says, half smile, no joke.
The five-minute horn for end of intermission groans.I should be in the room.I should be with my line, gear off, words in my mouth about the forecheck we’re going to choke out of them in the third.I don’t move.
Kael feels it, puts a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes once—a weight that says go without making it sound like leaving.“We’ve got her,” he says.
Wren meets my eyes.I don’t know what she sees there; I only know standing here feels like balance and leaving feels like jumping.“I’ll be right there,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I run the tunnel.I don’t hear the noise; I hear my skates on rubber and my own breath.In the room, I strip my gloves and helmet in a practiced toss and the equipment manager catches both without looking.Coach is talking pace; assistants are marking a faceoff play on the whiteboard.I don’t sit.I bounce on the balls of my feet, energy searching for a place to live that isn’t a wall.
“Atlas,” Coach says, eyes on the board, voice flat.“Line three starts.Keep their top line outside the dots.Body before puck; don’t give them the power play they’re fishing for.”
“Copy.”
Kael is beside him, pointing, calm and clean.We aren’t the same kind of fire.We fit because of that.
“Hey,” Finn says, sidling in, voice low.“She okay?”
“Scared.Breathing.”I grind my mouthguard once with my molars.“She’s staying bench side.”
“Good,” he says.We both know good is relative.
I yank my helmet back on, reclip my chin strap, and roll my shoulders until they pop.The room empties in organized chaos—taps on shin pads, taps on helmets, the low men’s-room chorus of let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.
When I step back onto the ice, the world shrinks to the width of the sheet.I can feel the wire in my chest and the cage under my ribs and still my first touch on the puck is clean.That’s the thing hockey taught me—carry everything and keep your hands soft.
