Ryan
The Ridgebacks want a fight before the puck even drops.
I feel it in warmups.
Too many slow loops past the Stampede blue line. Too many sticks dragging across logos. Their fourth-line winger, Tolland, keeps cutting close to Lex Volkov’s crease like he has misplaced something there.
I watch from the red line while I stretch my left hip and count problems.
Tolland wants blood.
Finn O’Sullivan wants permission.
Evan McKinney wants to freelance the neutral-zone trap like the defensive structure is optional.
Three problems before the anthem.
Great.
Colt Riley skates backward in front of me and sprays ice over my tape job. “You have your murder face on.”
“That’s just my face.”
“No, your regular face says tax audit. This one says somebody ate your pregame banana.”
“Move.”
“Warm. Inviting. I see why they made you captain.”
I do not stop him. A settled room listens better when it counts.
I catch Finn staring across center ice at Tolland. The rookie’s jaw is tight, shoulders too high, gloves flexing around his stick.
“O’Sullivan,” I call.
Finn looks over, and I tap my own temple with two gloved fingers.
Use your head.
Finn nods once, then immediately looks back at Tolland.
Hopeless.
Evan glides past us and cuts between two Ridgebacks during a shooting drill just because he can. One of their forwards tells him to go fuck himself. Evan smiles with all his teeth and says something back that makes the linesman turn away to hide a laugh.
“McKinney,” I say.
Evan curves back without slowing. “What?”
“Stay out of their warmup lane.”
“I was admiring their spacing.”
“Admire ours.”
“Ours is fine. Too conservative, but fine.”
Colt makes a soft choking sound. I look at him, and he skates away like a man suddenly interested in hydration.
