"Handled. Right." Kieran stripped off his blocker, the Velcro ripping loud in the quiet corner. "Is that what we’re calling it when our rookie loses his spark and our captain forgets how to lead?"
"I’m leading fine."
"You’re managing. There’s a difference." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "I’ve watched you build walls for ten years, and I never pushed because I figured you had your reasons. But whatever you did to that kid? It’s costing us. And it’s killing you."
My jaw tightened. "I signed the extension."
"Congratulations. Is that supposed to make this better?"
"It’s what matters. The team, the contract, the—"
"Luca." Kieran’s hand landed on my shoulder, grip firm. "When’s the last time you were happy?"
The question hit like a crosscheck to the sternum. I stood up, shrugging off his hand. "I need to shower."
"That’s what I thought."
I walked away. I felt his eyes on my back. I felt the weight of three weeks of distance and deflection pressing down until my shoulders ached with it.
In the shower, I stood under water hot enough to burn. I tried to wash away the memory of Theo’s face in the equipment room when I’d called it a mistake. The way his light had just—extinguished.
I tried not to think about late-night texts I didn't send. The phantom weight of him in my bed. How many times I’d reached for my phone to tell him about something stupid, then remembered I’d forfeited that right.
Game One of the conference semifinals.
The arena vibrated with playoff intensity. Towels waved. The crowd was deafening. Every hit and rush was amplified.
We were playing Colorado—fast, skilled, dangerous. The kind of team that exposed weaknesses.
I centered the second line now, giving Jamie’s unit more offensive deployment. Theo played twelve minutes the first two periods. Solid. Unremarkable.
Exactly what I’d wanted, back when I’d convinced myself his dimming would keep us both safe.
Third period. Tied 2-2. Coach double-shifted our top players. I hopped the boards for a defensive zone faceoff, legs burning, lungs aching.
I caught the puck off the draw and chipped it out. Tyler collected it and drove the neutral zone. I pushed for a lane, reading the developing rush.
Theo streaked up the far wing. Fast. Perfectly positioned. Stick ready.
Tyler’s pass hit his tape. Theo cut to the middle, Colorado’s defenseman closing hard.
I saw it developing. I saw the second defenseman coming from the blind side, launching for the hit.
"THEO!"
Too late.
The collision sent Theo airborne. His body twisted wrong. His helmet struck the ice with a crack that cut through eighteen thousand screaming fans.
He didn't get up.
I was moving before thought, crossing the ice as the whistle blew. Refs converged. Colorado’s players backed off, hands raised—clean hit, just brutal timing.
I dropped to my knees beside him. "Theo. Theo, look at me."
His eyes were open but unfocused. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, bright against his pale skin.
"Don't move." My hand hovered over his shoulder. Wanting to touch. Not daring. "Medical is coming."
