His gaze found mine. For one second, everything else fell away—the crowd noise, the refs, the game. Just him, hurt. And me, powerless.
"I’m okay," he slurred. "Just... gimme a second."
"You’re not okay." My voice came out rough. "Stay down."
The medical team arrived with a stretcher. I backed off, giving them room, hands clenched into fists. I watched them check his pupils, ask questions, carefully support his neck.
I watched them help him off the ice to a standing ovation he probably couldn't hear.
I watched the tunnel swallow him, and something cracked in my chest that had nothing to do with hockey.
Jamie skated up beside me. "He’ll be fine. The kid is tough."
I nodded. I couldn't speak.
The game restarted. I played the remaining eight minutes in a fugue state—body executing, mind elsewhere. We won 3-2 on a late goal I didn't remember celebrating.
In the handshake line, Colorado’s captain murmured condolences about Theo. I shook hands, said the right things. And felt nothing.
The locker room celebration was muted. Guys showered and dressed quickly, asking about Theo. Coach said he was getting evaluated. Likely concussion protocol. Update tomorrow.
I sat in my stall until everyone left. Kieran lingered, watching me with eyes that saw too much.
"You going to check on him?" he asked quietly.
"Team doctors have it handled."
"Luca."
"What?" I looked up, suddenly furious. "What do you want me to say? That I’m worried? That watching him get hit felt like taking the hit myself? That I—" I stopped. I breathed. "It doesn't matter what I feel."
"Why not?"
"Because I signed the contract. I made my choice. And he’s better off without—"
"Without what? Someone who gives a shit about him?" Kieran pulled his gear bag onto his shoulder. "You know what the difference is between you and me? I came out three years ago. Lost one endorsement, gained a dozen more. And yeah, there were assholes on social media and in some arenas. But you know what I didn't lose?"
I waited.
"Myself." He headed for the door, then paused. "That kid made you happy. Made you better. And you threw it away because you’re more afraid of living than dying."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I sat alone in the empty locker room, surrounded by the smell of tape and sweat, and a victory that felt hollow.
My phone buzzed. A text from Mark.
Mark:Contract is official. Ownership thrilled. Keep your head down through playoffs—stay focused, stay clean. This is your legacy moment.
Legacy.
I thought about legacies. About what people remembered. My father’s Hall of Fame career was marked by points and awards, not by the family he’d neglected or the son he’d taught to hide.
What would mine be? A five-year extension and a captaincy earned by playing it safe?
Another text, this one from my father.
Dad:Congratulations on the contract. Dinner after playoffs to celebrate. Proud of you for keeping focused.
