Mackie’s not breathing. I can feel it. She’s just sitting there frozen, watching Zach in the net getting peppered with shots, watching him carry the weight of this entire game on his shoulders.
The final buzzer sounds.
Loss. Four to two.
The series is now three to two.
The team skates off with their heads down, exhausted, defeated. Romeo doesn’t even look up at the family section.
Zach is the last one off. He pulls off his mask and even from here I can see the devastation on his face. The way his shoulders are slumped. The way he won’t look at anyone.
Mackie finally lets go of my hand and stands abruptly.
“I need to—I’ll be back.”
She’s gone before I can stop her, pushing through the crowd toward the exit.
Goldie and I exchange a look.
“That poor girl,” Goldie says softly.
“Yeah.”
We make our way down to wait for the team. The mood in the family area is somber, shocked. No one can quite process what justhappened. We were supposed to close out the series tonight. Instead we’re going back for another game.
Romeo comes out twenty minutes later with a bandage over his eyebrow and bruising already forming around his eye. He looks exhausted.
“Hey,” I say, touching his face gently. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a stray elbow.” He pulls me close and I can feel the tension in his body. “Luca though?—”
“What happened? What did that player say?”
“I don’t know. None of us know. But whatever it was—” He shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him like that. He was out of control. Completely out of control.”
“Is he okay?”
“Physically? Yeah. Everything else?” Romeo’s jaw tightens. “We’ll see. The league’s going to come down hard on this. Game misconduct in the playoffs? He’s going to get suspended.”
“For how long?”
“Could be the rest of the series. Could be longer.” He runs his hand through his hair. “We’re fucked if we don’t have him.”
We head back to his apartment in silence. The energy from this morning, confident and ready to close out the series, is completely gone. Now everyone is shell-shocked.
In his room, Romeo strips off his suit and climbs into bed without even turning on the lights. I follow, curling into his side.
“Tell me what happened,” I say quietly. “From your perspective.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. His hand traces patterns on my hip while he thinks.
Then he starts talking.
And what he tells me is so much worse than what I saw from the stands.
38
RODRIGUEZ
