“Pick one.”
“I am waiting to see which one costs us.”
I turn then.
Evan’s expression has lost the grin. Not hostile. Serious enough that I listen.
“Room notices, Cap,” Evan says.
“Room can handle a reporter.”
“Can you?”
Peyton laughs at something Colt says three rows back.
I face forward.
The bus pulls out.
Houston is smaller, older, and hostile in a way that makes the walls feel close. Expansion teams do not get warm welcomes on the road. Every win looks like theft to somebody.
I do not care.
We did not come to be liked.
The first period is fast. Physical. We go into the second tied one-one, and I can feel the game tilting toward ugly before it gets there.
On the bench, Evan leans down the line. “Forty-six is hunting the rookie.”
“I see him.”
“Seeing is not solving.”
“Stay in structure.”
Evan’s mouth tightens. “Structure will not keep Finn’s head off the glass.”
“A penalty will not either.”
The next shift proves both of us right in the worst way.
Finn jumps early on the opening forecheck. He has been better lately. Quieter stick. Cleaner reads. Still too much fire when someone challenges him.
I am watching when Houston’s number forty-six comes in late.
Real late.
Finn has already moved the puck when forty-six drives him face-first into the boards.
The sound cracks through the arena.
Peyton stands behind the rinkside glass.
I see her flinch.
Then Finn crumples.
Doc Aris and the trainers are on the ice in seconds. Blood on Finn’s face. His eyes wrong. His body trying to get up before his brain has voted.
