I can see it in the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long, the way his expression hardens almost imperceptibly.
I look away first.
The UCLA locker room smells like every visiting locker room — industrial cleaner and old sweat and tension.
We gear up in relative silence, the energy different than usual. Tighter. More aggressive. Nobody's joking, blasting music, or talking shit.
This game matters not just because we split with them at home. But because losing here would set a tone for the entire season. It would mark us as the team that can't close, can't dominate, or can't win when it counts.
Theo stands in the center of the room once we're all dressed, and the noise dies immediately.
"They embarrassed us," he says, his tone ice-cold and controlled. "At our house. In front of our crowd. We don't let that stand."
He looks around the room, making eye contact with each guy in turn.
When his eyes land on me, they hold for a beat longer than the others.
"No hesitation tonight," he says, still looking at me. "We play fast. We play hard. We finish."
The words feel targeted. Personal.
I hold his gaze and nod once.
Coach takes over after that, running through the game plan, line combinations, and special teams setups. But Theo's words hang in the air like a challenge.
No hesitation.
Translation: Don't fuck this up.
The UCLA arena is loud.
Hostile crowd, banners everywhere, their fans screaming before the puck even drops. They remember Friday's split. They want blood.
I skate out for warmups, testing my ribs with each stride. The bruise has faded from purple to yellow-green, but it still flares when I twist wrong or take a hit. I've been taping it tighter, taking ibuprofen like candy, pretending it doesn't affect my play.
But it does.
Theo and Silas know it.
The game starts fast and physical. UCLA comes out aggressively, throwing hits, pressuring our defense, and making us work for every inch of ice.
Theo responds by being Theo — dominant, ruthless, skating like he's got something to prove. He draws a penalty in the first fiveminutes by making their defenseman look stupid, then scores on the power play with a shot that goes bar-down so clean the goalie doesn't even move.
He skates past the UCLA bench afterward and smirks.
That's Theo –– violence wrapped in control.
Second period, things start to fall apart.
I'm covering the point when their forward, Rowan Melrose, cuts through the neutral zone faster than I anticipate. I hesitate just a fraction of a second, calculating whether to step up or fall back, and in that fraction, he blows past me and feeds a perfect pass to his winger.
Goal.
Tie game.
I skate back to the bench, and Theo's stare from across the ice is lethal. Not angry. Just cold. Assessing. Calculating the cost of my mistake.
Third period is a disaster.
