Page 133 of Offside Angle

The building erupts around us as Vanguard pours over the boards to celebrate.

I slow near center ice and stay there for a moment, leaning on my stick while I try to catch my breath. Everything hurts. My legs feel like they’ve been filled with wet concrete, every muscle is complaining, and somewhere beneath all of that is the lingering soreness from last night.

At least one thing about this trip has gone exceptionally well.

Small victories.

Eventually I force my skates toward the tunnel with the rest of the guys. Nobody has much to say, and Elias is already several steps ahead of us with his helmet tucked under one arm and his head bowed.

We just got our asses handed to us in Game 3 of the Finals.

There isn’t really a speech for that.

By the time we reach the locker room, everyone seems to be moving at half speed. Gloves hit the floor without their usual force, tape gets peeled away, skate laces loosen one careful pull at a time. Nobody is openly staring at Elias, which only makes it more obvious that every person in the room is aware of exactly where he is.

He sits hunched forward in his stall with his elbows on his knees, wearing most of his gear. Damp curls cling to his forehead, his shoulder pads are still strapped on, and he hasn’t said a word since we left the ice.

I drop my gloves beside my stall and sit, keeping my attention mostly on my own skates while the rest of the room does the same. Cole hasn’t made a joke in several minutes, which might be the most alarming thing happening. Viktor is characteristically silent, the rookies look like they’re afraid breathing too loudly might make things worse, and even Shane has nothing sarcastic to offer as he sits staring down at his pads.

We’re all pissed about the loss. Getting walked in a Finals game on the road fucking sucks, and every one of us knows there were plays we should have made and shifts we’d happily redo.

But none of that feels like the most important thing in the room anymore.

For all the shit we give each other, there has always been one rule on this team that matters more than whatever number is hanging on the scoreboard: we take care of our own.

Right now, Elias is the one who needs it.

I glance across the room and catch the faint tremor running through his hands where they’re clasped between his knees. Damian stands near the middle of the room with his arms folded, watching him with that particular expression he gets when he’s trying to decide whether Elias needs pushing or protecting.

For once, nobody rushes to fill the silence.

Cole is the first one to move.

He pulls off his gloves and drops them beside his stall, then works his shoulder pads loose before crossing the rubber flooring toward Elias. He doesn’t say anything or ask whether he wants help. He simply sinks down between Elias’s skates and starts undoing his gear.

One shin guard first, then the other.

His elbow pads follow, then the shoulder pads, Cole working slowly and without any of his usual commentary as if there is nothing unusual about stripping his captain out of his gear because Elias apparently can’t make himself do it.

Elias lets him.

He doesn’t help much, but he doesn’t resist either. He stays folded forward while Cole works, occasionally lifting an arm or shifting a leg when prompted, trusting him to do the rest.

Across the room, I see some of the tension leave Damian’s shoulders.

It isn’t much, but it’s there.

He knows what I know.

Cole has done this before.

If anybody has a chance of getting through to him now, it’s Cole.

Once Elias is down to his compression gear, Cole reaches for him, catches him around the waist, and pulls him forward until Elias slides off the bench and into his lap.

There’s no fight in him.

Cole wraps both arms around him and draws him in against his chest, one hand disappearing into Elias’s damp curls as he holds him there.