Tremaine’s post-game tirade after the 4-0 loss in Game One against the Titans had been loud, personal, and pointed. Especially the part where the head coach had stared straight at him and declared that they weren’t a retirement home.
That onestung.
Tane had sat there on the bench, hands clasped between his knees, expression blank, and let every word land. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even blink.
Because the truth of the matter was that he recognized the move.
It was an old play, but one of the good ones.
Tremaine had been pulling the same psychological rope-a-dope for years: single out the veteran leader, make him the lightning rod, let the sting burn deep enough that pride and spite turned into fuel. It was ugly. It was effective. And itworked.
Even if it didn’t have any effect on Tane’s performances, it would certainly inject some fire into the team. It was all part of being captain. Except this time, there was more of a sting to it as Tane new he was far closer to the end of this career than at any time before.
And yet…
By Game Seven—after six bruising, bloody-knuckled contests that had left both teams limping—the Toronto Enforcers were still alive. The series was tied 3–3. Winner-take-all. Home ice.
Pine Rise Arena would be electric tomorrow night.
Tane arrived at the rink four hours before puck drop.
The building was quiet in that sacred pre-game hush, only the low hum of the ice being resurfaced, the occasional clank of equipment being moved, the faint echo of a stick tapping against the boards somewhere far down the corridor.
Tane walked the familiar tunnel in his street clothes, gym bag slung over his good shoulder, the bad one already taped beneath his hoodie.
He found Ricki in the training suite, prepping the treatment table with fresh sheets and a tray of syringes. The physio looked up as Tane entered, brown eyes flicking immediately to the way Tane was favoring his left side.
“Captain,” Ricki said. “You’re early.”
“Wanted to get ahead of the crowd,” Tane answered.
He set his bag down and peeled off the hoodie. Underneath was a compression shirt, the right shoulder already wrapped in kinesiology tape.
“I need the numbing shot before the boys get here,” Tane said.
Ricki paused, needle in hand. “We talked about this last week. The lidocaine’s masking the pain, not fixing the tear. Doubling the dose again?—”
“I know the risks,” Tane cut in, voice steady. “But I need to feel nothing tonight. Not the grind, not the checks, not the wind-up.Doubleit.”
Ricki’s jaw worked. He looked at the syringe, then back at Tane, searching for the lie, the bluff, the crack in the armor. Ricki didn’t find one.
“Fine,” Ricki said at last. “But if you can’t lift your arm after the second period, I’m pulling you myself. No arguments.”
Tane gave a single nod. “Deal.”
Ricki prepped the injection site with alcohol, pressed the needle in, and depressed the plunger slowly. Tane stared at the far wall and breathed through the cold burn that spread under the skin. When Ricki taped a fresh layer of padding over the spot, Tane rolled the shoulder once—already duller, already distant.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Ricki met his eyes. “Just come back in one piece. You owe it to yourself. You and Jacob have a great future together. You need to be in full working order.”
Tane simply clapped Ricki on the shoulder, smiled ruefully, and walked out.
It was time to bring the big game focus to the table.
* * *
The game was war with a capital W from the opening face-off.
