“Jesus,” I mutter.
I catch myself gripping the edge of the seat so tight my knuckles ache.
Somewhere behind me, a PR intern glances over. I force myself to sit back with a blank expression and cross my arms like I’m cool with this.
I’m not.
I fucking hate it.
But when we kill the penalty, and the boys on the ice slam sticks against the boards, I feel a flicker of pride again.
The horn ends the second, tied 1–1. As the guys file off to the room, my phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from David:
Press box suits you. Want me to send popcorn up?
I huff out a laugh, shake my head as I respond:
Smartass. Focus on the game.
I shove the phone back into my jacket as the lights dim for intermission promos, my knee throbbing like it’s keeping score.
Tyler scores in the third. The crowd erupts.
And when the final buzzer sounds—3–2, win—I’m on my feet, crutch and all, heart thudding like I was out there myself.
From up here, I spot McCarthy stepping onto the ice to do his usual postgame roundup. Tyler says something to him, then glances up toward the press box.
He spots me in the booth and lifts his chin.
Not a challenge. Not cocky.
Just a nod.
Respect.
I nod back.
A PR rep behind me says, “Can’t wait till you’re back out there, Cap.”
I force a smile. A small one. But it takes effort.
The boys head off toward the tunnel, slapping gloves, chirping about someone missing a wide-open net. The usual stuff.
And for a moment, I let myself believe it—that I’ll be back out there soon. That they still need me.
Later in the tunnel, it’s buzzing—equipment carts squeaking, reporters angling for quotes, security redirecting foot traffic.
I stay along the wall. No rush. No spotlight. No interviews.
A few heads turn. One reporter lifts his mic like he’s about to call out, but I shake my head with a tight smile, and he nods back—message received.
Torres passes, helmet off now, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He slows just enough to clap my shoulder, grin wide. “Did you see that block, Cap? Took it right on the leg.”
I clap his shoulder once, firm. “Good shift.”
The kid’s fearless, and I can’t help but be proud of that.
Then I see her.
