The room didn’t go completely silent, but several conversations paused. Guys looked over.
I kept my expression neutral. “Didn’t realize you cared so much about my personal life. You jealous?”
Boucher’s eyes narrowed. For a moment I thought he might say something else, but he just scowled and turned back to taping his stick, his movements sharp and aggressive.
A few stalls down, Jensen caught my eye and smirked.
Kinnunen spoke up from across the room.
“Boucher. Shut up.”
Boucher turned. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Shut up.” Kinnunen’s voice was calm but firm. “Savard’s been taking care of an injured teammate. That’s what we do. So unless you have something constructive to say, maybe focus on the game instead of running your mouth.” He paused. “Captain.”
The locker room was silent now. Everyone watching. Waiting.
Boucher’s jaw tightened. “Just making conversation.”
“Make different conversation.” Kinnunen held his gaze. “We have a game to win.”
After a long moment, Boucher turned away. The tension wavered, conversations resumed, but I caught several guys glancing between me and Kinnunen.
Kinnunen met my eyes and gave a small nod. I nodded back, grateful but also worried. Boucher wasn’t going to forget that. Wasn’t going to let it go.
But that was a problem for later.
Right now, I had a game to play.
We won.
But I was barely part of it.
From the first shift, I felt it—that weight in my chest, that fog in my head that wouldn’t clear no matter how hard I tried to focus. My reads were slow, my timing off, my instincts completely silent.
First period, I turned the puck over at our blue line. Carolina scored thirty seconds later.
I skated back to the bench with my head down, Coach Wilson’s glare burning into the back of my neck.
Second period, I missed an open net. Just… missed it. The puck on my stick, the goalie out of position, and I shot wide. The arena groaned.
Jensen scored twice to put us up 2–1. Boucher added another goal in the third. We won 3–1, no thanks to me.
Zero points. Two turnovers. Multiple missed opportunities. Coach cut my ice time in the third period—again. I spent most of the final frame on the bench, watching my teammates win without me.
In the locker room after the game, guys were celebrating around me. Coach Wilson didn’t look at me. Didn’t need to. We both knew.
I showered quickly, dressed, avoided eye contact with anyone. The high of winning—for everyone else—felt like a stark contrast to the failure sitting heavy in my gut.
I made it to my Jeep, sat in the driver’s seat, and stared at nothing.
My phone rang. Papa.
I didn’t want to answer, but he’d just keep calling.
“Allô, Papa.”
“Étienne.” His voice was sharp, clipped. “I watched your game.”
