Martinez catches me with a hard hit along the boards. Nothing dirty, just physical, but my ribs are screaming from where he’s been targeting me all game.
“You look tired, Captain,” he says. “Maybe you should sit this one out.”
Seven minutes left and Rodriguez feeds me the puck in the neutral zone. I push it ahead, cross the blue line, cut toward the net with Martinez shadowing me.
I pass to Dex, he shoots, goalie saves but the rebound comes right back to me.
I don’t think. Just shoot.
It goes in.
4-3 with six minutes left and the arena erupts. My teammates mob me, the crowd’s deafening, and for about five seconds everything feels perfect.
Then I’m skating back to center ice and Martinez is right there waiting.
“Lucky shot,” he says.
“Scoreboard.”
His expression darkens. “Yeah? Enjoy it while it lasts.”
The way he says it makes my skin prickle, but the puck drops and we’re back at it.
Five minutes left. Four. Three.
Miami’s pressing hard, desperate for the tying goal, and we’re collapsing around our net blocking shots and trying to survive.
Martinez and I end up battling for the puck in the corner, bodies tight, sticks tangled, both fighting for position.
The puck squirts free and we both chase it.
I’m faster, get there first, already turning to move it up ice.
That’s when he hits me.
Not a hockey play. Not a check on the puck.
A deliberate, charging hit from behind that drives me headfirst into the boards, and the sound it makes is wrong—loud and sickening and final.
Then I’m on the ice and everything hurts.
My head’s ringing, my shoulder’s on fire, and I can’t breathe for a second, can’t think past the pain.
The whistle blows. Voices are yelling. Someone’s touching my back telling me not to move, but I’m already pushing myself up because staying down means it’s serious and it can’t be serious, not now.
I manage to sit up even though my head spins and blood’s dripping down my face from somewhere. My shoulder’s screaming but I can move it, which means it’s not separated.
That’s good. That has to be good.
“Five minute major!” the ref’s yelling. “Boarding! Game misconduct!”
Martinez is being escorted off the ice and he doesn’t even look sorry.
Then Marnie’s there, kneeling beside me, and her voice is professional and controlled but there’s something underneath it.
“Roman. What hurts?”
“Shoulder. Head. I’m fine.”
