“Coach shut him down. Told him to keep his personal feelings out of the locker room and focus on hockey. But…” Kinnunen shrugged. “He’s not happy. And he’s captain. He can make things uncomfortable without saying a word.”
“Great,” Étienne muttered.
“Just focus on your game,” Kinnunen said. “Play like you always do. That’s all you can control.”
“Or better than I have,” Étienne joked. But it didn’t make the knot in my stomach loosen.
I watched Étienne during the drills, tracked his movements across the ice. He was playing right wing as usual, practicing with his line. Boucher centered that line.
And Boucher wouldn’t even look at him.
This was going to be a long game.
By the time we gathered in the locker room that evening for the Winnipeg game, my nerves were stretched tight.
I went through my usual routine—shin pads, shoulder pads, each piece of equipment in the proper order. Étienne taped his stick at my stall, the ritual so familiar it should have been comforting.
Instead, it felt charged. Like everyone was watching us, measuring us, waiting to see if we’d changed now that they knew.
Coach Wilson walked in as we were finishing getting dressed. “Listen up.”
The room quieted.
“Tonight’s an important game. Winnipeg’s playing well. They’re hungry. We need to be sharp, focused, disciplined.” His eyes swept the room, landing briefly on Étienne and me, then moving on. “I don’t care what’s happening off the ice. On the ice, we’re a team. We play for each other. We support each other. That clear?”
A chorus of agreement.
“Boucher, anything to add?”
Boucher stood, his captain’s presence commanding the room. “Yeah. Let’s focus on hockey. That’s what we’re here for. That’s what matters.”
His eyes didn’t even flicker toward Étienne or me.
The message was clear: you don’t matter. You’re not worth acknowledging.
We took the ice for warm-ups, and I tried to shake offthe tension. This was just another game. I’d played hundreds of them in the NHL. Thousands, counting juniors and college.
But as we lined up for the US and Canadian national anthems, I was hyperaware of everything. Of Étienne standing with his line at center ice. Of Boucher beside him, deliberately leaving space between them. Of Kinnunen on my right, close enough that our shoulders almost touched—a small gesture of solidarity.
The puck dropped, and the game began.
The first period was rough.
I could see it happening from my position on the blue line—could see Boucher icing Étienne out. In theory, they should have been working together, creating plays, supporting each other.
Instead, Boucher played like Étienne wasn’t there.
Five minutes in, Étienne broke free down the right side, wide open for a pass. Boucher had the puck in the neutral zone, could have fed it to him for an easy entry into the offensive zone. Instead, he forced a pass to the left wing that got intercepted.
Turnover. Winnipeg rushed back the other way.
I stepped up to challenge their forward at the blue line, forced him wide, and Kinnunen swept in to clear the puck.
“Nice,” Kinnunen said as we skated back.
But I watched Étienne and saw the frustration in the set of his shoulders as he headed to the bench for a line change.
It happened again six minutes later. Étienne positioned perfectly in the slot, stick ready. Boucher had the puck behind the net and could have sent it to him for a one-timer. Instead, he tried to force it through two defenders to Jensen.
