“...and your captain, NUMBER SEVENTY-NINE, ROMAN VAAAARGA!”
The noise is deafening.
He skates to center ice, and I can see the set of his shoulders, the focus in his stance. This is his element. His ice. His team.
I’m just the woman who cleared him to play.
The puck drops.
Nashville’s not making it easy. They’re physical, targeting Roman specifically, testing whether he’ll protect his shoulder or play through contact.
He doesn’t hesitate.
First period, he takes a hit that sends him into the boards shoulder-first, and my hand reaches for my kit before he pops back up and keeps skating.
“He’s fine,” Jake says, reading my panic.
“I know.”
But I don’t know. Won’t know until I can get hands on that shoulder and verify everything’s still aligned, stable, perfect.
Second period.
Roman’s on the power play, quarterbacking from the point. I watch him scan the ice, reading the defense, patient. The puck moves through the triangle—Rodriguez to Dex to Roman—and he one-times it top shelf before the goalie can react.
Goal.
The arena explodes.
His teammates mob him, but through the celebration, his head turns toward the medical booth. Toward me.
His eyes find mine and everything else disappears. Just him, breathing hard, grinning like he can’t help it, looking at me like I put that puck in the net instead of him.
“Oh, you’re fucked,” Jake mutters beside me.
“Shut up.”
“Completely, totally fucked.”
He’s not wrong.
Third period, Roman scores again—a wrist shot from the slot that’s pure muscle memory and perfect mechanics. The team’s up 4-2 with five minutes left, and I should be relaxed but I’m not. I’m watching every shift, every hit, cataloging his movements for any sign of compensation or weakness.
The final buzzer sounds.
Seattle wins 4-2.
The team celebrates on the ice while the crowd chants Roman’s name, and I’m already heading down to the medical room because he’ll come straight there, it’s protocol after the first game back, and I need to see him.
The hallway’s chaos—media, staff, families crowding and talking and celebrating. I slip into the medical suite, flip on lights, prep the treatment table.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
The door opens fifteen minutes later.
Roman, still in his gear except for his helmet and gloves, hair plastered to his head with sweat.
“Hey,” he says.
