“I mean it. I need production from my first line, not passengers.” He kept walking.
Marco didn’t look at me. Just went back to his gear, the conversation clearly over. We both knew I was struggling. We both knew my first-line spot was in jeopardy. Talking about it wouldn’t change anything.
I finished my knob tape and tested the grip. Good. Solid. Ready.
Across the room, Kinnunen was rearranging his stall for the third time, muttering to himself. Equipment in perfect lines, stick propped at exactly the right angle, water bottles organized by fullness.
“Think Kinnunen’s going to make it through warm-ups without a nervous breakdown?” I asked.
Marco glanced over. “He’s been worse. Remember Minnesota?”
“Oh God, Minnesota.” I’d almost forgotten. “Didn’t he reorganize his stall four times?”
“Five. Wilson had to tell him to stop before he missed warm-ups.”
“And then he took that penalty thirty seconds into the first period.”
“Because his routine was off.” Marco shook his head. “Superstitions are wild.”
“Says the guy who won’t put his jersey on until the last possible second.”
“That’s not superstition. That’s comfort.”
“Whatever you say, man.”
The energy in the room was building now. Music pounded from someone’s speaker—something bass-heavy that vibrated in my chest. Guys were moving faster, talking louder, the pregame restlessness taking over. I felt it in my body, that need to move, to fly down the ice with the puck on my stick.
But I didn’t move yet. Marco wasn’t done gearing up, and I wouldn’t head back to my stall to dress until he was ready. He would follow me—always had and always would.
He reached for his skates and paused, his hand forming a fist.
“You good?” I asked.
He was quiet for a second. “Yeah. Just… thinking about that last game.”
The last game against Columbus. We’d lost 2–4. Not his fault that one of those goals had come when Marco was on the ice—weird bounce off the boards, nothing he could have done—but he’d still beaten himself up about it for three days afterward.
“That wasn’t on you,” I said.
“I should have?—”
“Bad bounce. Random chance. Hockey gods being assholes.” I leaned my shoulder against his. “You played a solid game. They just got lucky.”
He didn’t argue, which meant he didn’t believe me but appreciated me saying it anyway.
That was Marco. Took every loss personally, carried every mistake, remembered every goal against like it was carvedinto his bones. I’d tried to talk him out of it for three years, and it had never worked. So now I just reminded him he was human and hoped some of it stuck.
“Tonight’s different,” I said. “We’re at home. We’re ready.”
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
Maybe I was. “I just need to play better. That’s all.”
I stood and rolled my shoulders, feeling the pregame jitters starting to take over for real now. Couldn’t sit still anymore. Needed to move.
“I’m going to go gear up,” I announced. “You coming?”
“Give me two minutes.”
