Morrison tried to swing. I ducked under it. I drove my fist into his ribs. Then his jaw. Once. Twice. The referees were shouting,hands grabbing at both of us, but I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop. Morrison had hit Theo.
Someone yanked me backward. Hayes.
"Cap, he's down! Moretti, look!"
The red haze cleared enough for me to see the Storm’s trainer kneeling beside Theo on the ice, checking his eyes with a penlight. Theo was conscious—thank God, he was conscious—but his face was pale and his expression was glazed with shock.
I stopped fighting. I let the referees haul me toward the penalty box while Morrison skated to his own bench, spitting blood on the ice. The arena was screaming, half the crowd on their feet, but all I could hear was my own pulse thundering in my ears.
What the hell did I just do?
I never fought. Not in ten years. I never lost control. I never let emotion override discipline. Captains didn't fight. Captains kept their heads and led by example. They sure as hell didn't drop the gloves and whale on an opposing player like a goon.
The trainer was helping Theo to his feet. Slowly. Theo’s legs looked unsteady, but he was standing. He was moving toward the bench under his own power.
The tight band around my chest loosened fractionally.
I sat in the penalty box and watched the game resume without me. Five minutes for fighting. Morrison got five plus a game misconduct for the charge.
I sat there with my gloves off and my knuckles aching and tried to understand what the hell had just happened.
I had lost it. Completely lost it. The mask I had worn for ten years had shattered the second I saw Theo hit the ice.
The assistant coach caught my eye through the penalty box glass and tapped his temple twice.Get your head right.
I nodded mechanically.
The five minutes crawled past. When the penalty expired, I stepped back onto the ice for my shift. I hyper-focused on playing my game. I backchecked hard. I won my faceoffs. I made the safe play every time.
By the time the second period ended, the Storm were up 1-0 on a power play goal I had nothing to do with.
I headed to the locker room and carefully didn't look at the spot where Theo sat. The rookie was still in full gear. Still dressed. That meant the trainer hadn't pulled him from the game entirely, just held him out as a precaution.
He's fine. He's fine. Stop checking on him.
The second intermission passed in a blur of adjustments and hydration. Coach Reeves said something about staying disciplined, about not retaliating. His eyes lingered on me for a beat too long. I nodded and drank my water and ignored the curious looks from my teammates.
In the third period, Theo returned to the ice.
I saw him vault over the boards for his shift and felt something in my chest unlock. The rookie’s skating looked normal. His positioning was sharp. Whatever damage the hit had done, it hadn't been enough to keep Callahan down.
The game ended 2-1, Storm victory.
The arena erupted. I went through the motions of the post-game ritual—handshake line, stick salute to the crowd, skating off the ice. I should have felt good. Opening night win, solid two-way performance, team clicking.
Instead, all I could think about was the sound of Theo hitting the boards.
In the locker room, the energy was high. Music blasted. Guys chirped each other. Hayes did an exaggerated reenactment of my fight that made half the team crack up. I stripped off mygear mechanically, answering questions with grunts and half-sentences.
"Hell of a fight, Cap," Hayes said, dropping into the stall next to mine. "Haven't seen you drop the mitts since... ever, actually."
"He was targeting a rookie." I unlaced my skates without looking up. "Someone had to send a message."
Hayes’s tone suggested he didn't buy that explanation for a second. "Nothing to do with the fact that you've been watching Callahan like a hawk all game?"
My hands stilled. My pulse kicked up, flooding my veins with adrenaline.
Careful. Very careful.
