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Roman just nods once. “Understood, Cap.”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek.

Jesus Christ.

A year ago Elias would’ve been vibrating out of his skin before a playoff game. Now he’s standing there threatening a goalie with lifelong psychological damage in that calm, terrifying tone Damian uses when he’s already decided exactly how you’re going to suffer.

Apparently captaincy comes with gradual possession by Damian Kade.

Give him another season and the kid’s going to start carrying a clipboard just to make the threats feel official.

Elias stares at Roman for another second, gives him one sharp nod, then moves on like he didn’t just shave five years off the rookie’s life.

The horn blares again.

It’s time.

We line up in the tunnel, lights already off in the arena. The music is blaring so loud I can feel it in my chest. The crowd is roaring. This is it. We start moving forward. And right there, standing at the mouth of the tunnel with his camera raised, is Santi.

He’s filming our entrance, capturing the moment we step out into the dark arena with the lights flashing and the music pounding. I try to keep my head down and focus on the ice in front of me, but the second I pass him, I hear it.

“Good luck, cariño.”

My foot catches on absolutely nothing. I almost face-plant right there in the tunnel. I manage to catch myself at the last second, stumbling forward before straightening up and blasting out onto the ice like nothing happened. My heart is hammering.

Fucking “cariño.”

Again.

I skate hard toward our bench, trying to shake it off, but the word is still ringing in my ears. I can feel the heat crawling up the back of my neck under my helmet.

The puck drops and everything else disappears.

The second the blade hits the ice, I shove every distraction out of my head — Santi, the weird tension in the locker room, my parents in the stands, even Lena in my jersey. None of it matters right now. The Icehawks came for revenge, and they’re playing like it. They want the Cup we took from them last season, and they’re not going to make it easy.

Cole is chirping from the first shift.

He’s everywhere, skating hard and running his mouth the entire time. “Missed us that much, huh?” he yells at their top line after a blocked shot. “Don’t worry, we’ll make it quick for you!”

I’m on the opening shift with Viktor on defense. The Icehawks come at us hard right away, trying to set the tone early. Their center drives toward the net with speed, looking for that first goal to get the crowd on their side.

Viktor and I shut it down. I step up on the forward, forcing him wide while Viktor seals the lane. The puck bounces off my skate and I clear it hard up the boards. The crowd roars. It’s not pretty, but it’s effective.

The Icehawks keep coming, but we hold the line.

The first period is a war. Cole keeps chirping nonstop, getting under their skin every chance he gets. Elias is a menace in the neutral zone. I stay focused on my own responsibilities, reading plays, making the first pass, and keeping their forwards from getting too comfortable.

By the time the horn sounds for the end of the first period, we’re tied 0-0.

The second period is even faster.

The Icehawks come out swinging, clearly pissed that we shut them down in the first. They’re pressing hard, trying to create chances off the rush and cycling the puck deep in our zone. We match their intensity. Hits are harder. Sticks are more active. The crowd is on their feet more than they’re sitting.

One of the rookies—Jace, out with the third line—gets a lucky bounce off a blocked shot near the blue line. He jumps on it, sees the lane open, and drives straight down the middle. One of their defensemen steps toward him too late. Jace snaps a quick wrist shot past the goalie’s glove.

The arena explodes.

First goal of the playoffs.