Final.
The Stampede celebrate around Volkov, but I skate to the bench and look toward the tunnel first.
Finn before the win.
Always.
At the postgame table, the media room is packed.
I sit with damp hair, crooked tie, and a microphone clipped to my shirt. Cameras blink red. Recorders line the table. My shin throbs from a blocked shot. My shoulder aches from a late hit. My phone sits face down beside me with four messages from my mother I have not had time to answer.
Peyton stands near the back.
I find her without meaning to.
Liar.
The questions come fast.
“Ryan, can you talk about the hit on Finn O’Sullivan?”
“Dangerous play. Elbow to the head. The officials made the right call.”
“Update on his condition?”
“Medical is evaluating him.”
“You didn’t retaliate. Was that conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I lean forward. “Because fighting does not help Finn. Winning the game does.”
Another reporter jumps in. “Some people will say you’ve lost your edge. That after your mother’s surgery, after the recent profile attention, you’re playing too restrained. What do you say to that?”
Family as weakness. Discipline as softness. A man’s mother on an operating table turned into a storyline by someone who will never have to look her in the eye.
I hold the reporter’s gaze.
“I say we won three-one.”
“But your team wanted blood.”
“My team wanted Finn safe.”
“Did they? It looked like you had to hold them back.”
“That’s leadership.”
The room shifts.
Peyton’s pen stops.
I keep my eyes on the reporter.
“My job is not to give the crowd the version of justice that feels good for thirty seconds. My job is to protect my team and win hockey games. Tonight I did both.”
