Blocked. Cleared. Another wasted opportunity.
On the bench, I ended up sitting between Kinnunen and Harris. They’d made room for me, a deliberate choice. OnÉtienne’s shifts, Jensen sat beside him. Small gestures, but they mattered.
“Boucher’s playing like shit,” Harris muttered during a TV timeout.
“He’s playing angry,” Kinnunen said quietly. “Not smart.”
I didn’t say anything. Just watched as Boucher skated past the bench without looking at any of us.
Despite the tension, we managed to stay competitive. Belov made some brilliant saves. I broke up a two-on-one with a well-timed poke check. We went into the first intermission tied 1–1.
In the locker room, Coach addressed the team. “We’re playing disconnected out there. Passing lanes are getting clogged because we’re not reading each other. Boucher, you need to use your wingers. Both of them. That’s what they’re there for.”
Boucher’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.
It didn’t help.
The second period was more of the same.
Étienne played well—skated hard, positioned himself correctly, and created opportunities. But Boucher wouldn’t feed him the puck. Wouldn’t even look at him.
It was sabotage. Subtle enough that maybe the average fan wouldn’t notice, but everyone on the bench could see it. Everyone on the ice could feel it.
Winnipeg scored first, taking a 2–1 lead. Then we answered back when Jensen managed to get the puck to Étienne in the slot, and Étienne buried it in the five-hole.
His first goal in months.
He’d needed that. God, he’d needed that so badly.
Maybe this would quiet the trade rumors. Maybe Greer would see that Étienne was turning it around, that he was worth keeping.
I watched from the blue line as Étienne celebrated with Jensen, the two of them crashing together in front of the net. Natural. Easy. The way it should be.
Boucher skated past them without a word.
The period ended tied: 2–2
Back in the locker room, the tension was thick. “We win as a team, or we lose as a team.” Coach’s angry gaze found the captain. “Boucher! No one player is bigger than the group. I need everyone playing for each other out there.”
Boucher’s nostrils flared and his jaw flexed as he ground his molars.
Third period. One more period to get through.
Winnipeg came out hard, pressing us. I blocked two shots in the first three minutes, felt the sting through my pads. Kinnunen was everywhere, breaking up plays.
And then, eight minutes into the period, we got a break.
Kinnunen intercepted a pass at our blue line, sent it up to Étienne. He carried it into the neutral zone, saw Jensen breaking down the left side with speed.
He fed him the puck perfectly.
Jensen took it in stride, cut toward the net, and roofed it over the goalie’s shoulder. The lamp lit and the goal horn sounded.
3–2.
Étienne had a goal and an assist. Two points. My chest tightened with pride and relief—he was really doing it. His game was turning around. The arena erupted, the goal music blasted from enormous speakers, and the energy surged through me. Jensen reached Étienne first, then Kinnunen, then I skated in—I crashed into the group, into him, just another teammate celebrating a crucial goal. The contact lasted seconds, our helmets knocking together, his arm briefly across my shoulders before we broke apart. No onewould read anything into it. But I felt the warmth of him even through all the padding.
Boucher skated to center ice for the faceoff without celebrating.
