“I’m fascinating.”
“You’re something,” he says, but there’s no judgment in it. Just observation.
Even Luca, usually lost in his own pre-game rituals, mentions it while I’m clearing his shoulder. “The captain seems distracted.”
“Big game tonight.”
“That he’s not playing in.”
“No.”
Each interaction is a reminder that the team knows. Some sawRoman follow me to the supply closet. Jake’s discretion lasted about thirty seconds. Everyone knows something happened, even if they don’t know exactly what.
The arenapractically vibrates with energy.
Fans flood the concourses wearing new jerseys and waving signs. Media is everywhere, cameras tracking every movement. The team’s running on pure adrenaline, that opening night electricity that makes even practice feel different.
I’m in the medical room doing final checks when Roman shows up wearing a suit that makes him look older, more formal. Like someone’s father, not the man who had me pressed against shelving four days ago.
“Shouldn’t you be with management?” I ask, not looking up from Rodriguez’s tape job.
“Shouldn’t you be telling me my shoulder’s miraculously healed?”
“Miracles are outside my scope of practice.”
Rodriguez glances between us, then stands carefully. “I’ll just... go warm up.”
When he’s gone, Roman steps into the room.
“How’s your mom?”
“Watching on TV. Teresa has her comfortable.”
“Good.”
“It’s not good. It’s manageable.” I set down the tape, finally looking at him. “I have three more players to clear.”
“I know.”
He turns to leave, stops at the door.
“If it matters to you I’d rather be in gear. But watching you work doesn’t suck.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with medical supplies and the weight of everything unsaid.
The tunnel leadingto the ice is packed an hour before game time.
Players in full gear doing their pre-game rituals, tapping sticks against the wall in patterns only they understand. Coaches with their game faces on, reviewing last-minute strategies. Media trying to capture the energy, the moment, the story of opening night.
I’m rushing down the hallway with last-minute supplies when I see Roman.
He’s standing alone in the hallway opposite the locker room door. Back against the wall. Eyes closed. In his own head.
I should keep walking. Should give him this moment. Should leave him alone with whatever he’s processing.
But my feet stop.
“MORETTI!” Barrett’s voice carries through the door, muffled but clear. “You ready to stand on your head tonight?”
