Finn looks down at his skate. “I know.”
The room goes quieter around the edges.
That is the thing about a locker room. Men can ignore almost anything if the music is loud enough. Medical silence cuts through all of it.
Maren keeps her voice even. “You feel anything off, you tell me. Not Ryan. Not Roman. Not the guy beside you. Me.”
Finn nods.
“Out loud.”
“Out loud,” Finn says.
Her gaze finally comes to me.
Not permission.
A warning.
I give her one short nod.
Round One, Game One feels bigger than the building should be able to hold.
The Stampede have never been here before. Not like this. Not with the city wearing our colors like it has been waiting its whole life to be unbearable about hockey.
Frost Bank Center is already shaking before the anthem. Crimson towels snap in every section. The jumbotron runs the playoff package, all hits and goals and slow-motion breath, and the crowd eats it like proof.
First playoff series in franchise history.
That phrase has been on every broadcast graphic for a week.
It should be simple.
It is not.
Simple would mean winning the game in front of us.
Not managing a rookie’s brain, a reporter’s suspicion, a doctor’s warning, and an entire organization’s appetite for a clean story.
Game one goes physical from the drop.
First line takes three hard hits before the refs find their rhythm. Colt draws a boarding that would have been a penalty in October and gets nothing in April. The bench is loud in the wrong way.
“Same standard all night?” Zach barks.
The ref ignores him.
“Apparently the standard is vibes,” Colt mutters.
“Skate,” I say.
Finn goes out on the third shift.
He is fine for ninety seconds. Better than fine, almost. His first touch is clean. He rims the puck hard, eats a bump, keeps his feet, and gets back into the lane before the forward can cut inside.
The bench exhales without meaning to.
That is dangerous too.
