Michael
The air in Denver always felt like it was trying to starve your lungs. It was thin, crisp, and carried the scent of hard-won mountain oxygen and the looming threat of the Avalanche’s speed. But inside the visitor’s locker room, the atmosphere was thick with something else entirely: pure, unadulterated intent.
It was an early Saturday start, a matinee that felt more like a street fight in the sun. The room was a controlled riot of pre-game rituals. Tucker was obsessively re-taping his stick for the fourth time, Mason bounced a soccer ball off his knees in the hallway, and the heavy bass of Landon’s playlist was vibrating the steel benches.
"Hey, Cap," Landon shouted over the music, tossing a roll of clear tape at my chest. "You look like you’re ready to hunt. Or like you haven't slept. Either way, I like the energy."
I caught the tape instinctively, my mind a broken map of the last forty-eight hours. The image of Kayla walking away from the lake, was burned into my retinas. I’d spent the flight to Colorado staring at a blank phone screen, realizing that performance only got me so far. On the ice, the crowd loved the show. In the real world, the show was exactly what had cost me everything.
"I'm fine, Landon," I said, my voice sounding like gravel. "Let’s just get the win so we can get on that plane."
"That's the spirit!" Coach said, stepping into the center of the room. He looked at each of us, his eyes landing on the 'C' on my jersey. "Listen up. We are sixty minutes away from a handshake line and a flight home. Colorado is going to come out flying. They’re at home, they’re desperate, and they think they can outrun us. Landry, Shawn—I want that second line to be a physical nightmare for them. Grind them down. Make them hate every inch of the neutral zone."
We hit the ice to a wall of boos that felt like a shot of adrenaline. The Avalanche didn't disappoint. From the first puck drop, it was a track meet. MacKinnon was a blur of white and burgundy, cutting through our defense like a hot wire through wax.
"Landry! High slot!" Mason yelled as we crossed the blue line five minutes into the first.
I saw the opening. I didn't wait for the puck to settle. I took a hard pass from the wall, pivoted on a dime, and let a one-timer go that stayed about six inches off the ice. It didn't go in, but it generated a rebound that Landon swatted home with a flamboyant backhand.
1-0, Surge.
"That's how we start!" Tucker roared, leaping into the glass.
But Colorado answered back. Then we did. By the start of the third period, it was 3-2 for us, and the game had devolved into a brutal test of endurance. My ribs were screaming from a cross-check I’d taken in the second, and my lungs felt like they were filled with hot sand.
"Keep the pressure! Don't let them breathe!" I shouted on the bench, slamming my glove against the boards as the first line went back out.
With ten minutes left, Colorado pulled their goalie for an extra attacker during a delayed penalty. The pressure was suffocating. They were moving the puck with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. I was out there with Tucker and Mason, playing a diamond penalty kill that felt more like a siege.
"Watch the seam!" I yelled, diving to block a passing lane.
I felt the puck thud against my shin guard, the impact vibrating all the way up to my hip. I scrambled up, saw the puck loose near the red line, and put my head down. I wasn't skating for the fans. I wasn't skating for the cameras. I was skating because I needed to win something—anything—to make the flight back feel like it mattered.
I beat the Colorado defenseman to the puck, used my body to shield it, and instead of just dumping it, I saw Landon streaking down the other side. I flipped a saucer pass that hung in the thin air for what felt like an eternity.
Landon caught it, danced around a diving defender with a move that belonged in a circus, and buried it into the empty net.
4-2. The bench erupted. The small pocket of Surge fans in the nosebleeds went wild. I skated over to Landon, and for the first time in three days, I felt a genuine, fiery spark of joy.
"Nice pass, Romeo!" Landon yelled, pulling me into a headlock. "You’re making me look good!"
The final horn was a beautiful, discordant scream. We flooded the ice, the camaraderie of a winning locker room washing over us. We’d done it. Four games. A sweep. Round 2 was ours.
"Handshake line, boys! Keep it classy!" Coach yelled, though he was grinning like a madman.
I moved through the line, shaking hands with the exhausted Colorado players, but my mind was already at DenverInternational. I wanted the flight. I wanted the three-hour vacuum of the plane where I could think.
Back in the locker room, the celebration was deafening. Champagne wasn't flowing yet—that was for later rounds—but the music was loud enough to rattle the light fixtures.
"Round 3, baby!" Mason shouted, dumping a water bottle over Tucker’s head. "Vegas or Edmonton, it doesn't matter! We're rolling!"
I sat in my stall, stripping my gear, the heavy ache of the game settling into my bones. I looked at the 'C' on my jersey again. It was a symbol of performance, of leadership on the ice. But as the guys cheered and planned their night back in San Antonio, I realized that being a captain was easy when the scoreboard was in your favor.
It was the scoreboard back in that apartment that was killing me. I needed to get home. I needed to show Kayla that I knew the difference between being a star and being a man who actually shows up.
"You coming, Landry?" Tucker asked, throwing a towel at me. "Bus leaves in ten. We’ve got a flight to catch."
"I'm right behind you," I said, standing up. My body was broken, my lungs were on fire, and we were the best team in the West. But as I walked toward the bus, all I could think about was a woman who didn't care about my stats and a kid who deserved better than a photo op.
