The Outlaws answer.
Colby takes a hit along the boards and bounces off like the boards apologized.
I hate that my first thought is:
Are you okay?
My second thought is worse.
He hasn’t texted me in days.
The second period is messy in a good way. It’s more physical, more chippy. The refs are letting them play. The crowd loves it.
I’m watching for the clock as much as the puck now.
Because I have a performance to manage and the horn is coming whether I’m ready or not.
At sixteen minutes, a fight breaks out near the net.
Dex is in the middle of it, of course.
Mason is grinning like he’s having the time of his life.
Colby skates in, not wild, not reckless, but just controlled authority. He separates bodies with his forearm, says something I can’t hear.
Everyone calms.
Not because they want to.
Because he told them to.
That’s what being captain looks like.
Dex doesn’t back down, though. He chirps something I can’t hear, the opposing forward fires right back, and suddenly gloves are coming up.
The whistle shrieks.
The crowd explodes into boos as both of them get hauled toward the box, Dex still talking even as the ref points him off.
Coach is on his feet instantly, shouting from the bench, arms chopping the air. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. The message is clear: focus. Lock it down. Don’t get sloppy.
Play resumes and the tension is high as we are nearing the end of the period.
And this time, the other team capitalizes.
A quick pass through traffic. A rebound. A puck that slips past the pad before the goalie can seal the post.
The red light flashes again.
But not for us.
The building groans as one.
One–one.
There are six minutes left, but I can't watch anymore.
My whole body goes alert.
