Chapter eight
Momentum Shift - A sudden change in control or energy during the game.
Dante
My ribs still ached. The bruise on my face had reached its full purple-black glory, and Cinder had made it extremely clear that getting hit again before the swelling went down could turn a mild concussion into something significantly less mild.
So here I was. Watching. He’d even said it was unlikely I’d make game three, which I was trying not to think about.
Max found me an hour before puck drop, skating over with that purposeful quality that meant he’d already decided something.
“Your family here?” he asked through the glass.
“What?”
“Your family. Your mom. Your brothers. Are they here?”
I blinked at him. “No. I didn’t—I mean, I thought about it, but tickets are expensive and—”
He frowned. “You know you get free ones? How many?”
“We only get two, though.”
He scoffed. “How many family members?”
I did the math. “Five, six maybe? My mom, my two brothers. Marco’s married, has a kid.”
Max pulled out his phone, typed something with the efficiency of a man who’d done this before. “Done. VIP tickets. Suite level. They’re comp’d.”
“Max, I can’t—”
“You’re not. Team is. Families of players get taken care of.” He looked up from his phone. “Call them. Tell them to get here before puck drop. And tell your brothers they’re meeting the team after, locker room.”
“You can’t just—”
“I’m captain. I can do whatever I want.” He grinned, that quick flash of warmth that made it impossible to argue with him. “Call them, Russo. Your mom fed us. Least we can do.”
He skated off before I could protest further.
I stood in the tunnel with my phone in my hand and tried to figure out how to explain this to my mother. Hey, Ma, remember those hockey players you fed yesterday? They just gave you six VIP tickets to a playoff game. No big deal.
She answered on the first ring. “Dante? Are you okay? Should you be calling? Shouldn’t you be—”
“I’m fine, Ma. Listen, do you want to come to the game tonight?”
Silence.
“Ma?”
“Tonight? Dante, tickets are— We looked, they’re hundreds of dollars, being the playoffs, and with Marco’s mortgage and Nicky’s—”
“They’re free. Team’s giving them to me. VIP suite. You, Marco, his family, Nicky, whoever he wants to bring. Can you make it?”
Another silence. Then: “Are you sure? That’s too generous, we can’t—”
“You can. Max insisted. Please, Ma. I want you here.”
I heard her voice crack slightly. “We’ll be there. Let me call your brothers.”
“Tell them to bring something nice to wear. They’re meeting all the team after.”
“Meeting all the— Dante Michael Russo, are you serious?”
“Dead serious. Love you, Ma.”
“I love you too, baby. We’ll be there.”
I hung up and stood in the tunnel and settled.
My family was coming. They were going to watch from a VIP suite, and my brothers were going to meet the team, and for the first time in two months, I felt like maybe I actually belonged here.
In two years, Chicago had never offered me that.
Sure, Marco and Nicky had come alternately, sometimes Mom had.
The suite was on the club level, glass-fronted with a perfect view of the ice.
Free food and drink. I found them just before puck drop—my mom in the good coat she wore to church, Marco in a button-down with his wife Lucia beside him and their son Anthony bouncing with barely contained excitement. And Nicky.
Nicky had brought someone.
“Dante!” My mom pulled me into a hug that made my ribs hurt. I didn’t say anything. “Look at you in a suit. So handsome. How do you feel?”
“Fine, Ma. Better.”
Marco shook my hand, then pulled me into a one-armed hug. “Heard you got jumped. You okay?”
“Three on one. They got arrested.”
“Good.” Marco had that big-brother sound that suggested if they hadn’t been arrested, he would have handled it personally. “This is insane, by the way. VIP suite? Meeting the team? You trying to make us look bad?”
“Just trying to share the perks.”
Marco sent him a level look, and I flushed. Both my brothers were well aware I’d already shared financial perks. But growing up, neither had resented all the time and money it had taken, so it was the least I could do. Anthony’s college fund was already taken care of.
Lucia kissed my cheek, careful of the bruise. “We’re so proud of you.”
Anthony, who was seven and apparently made entirely of energy, grabbed my arm. “Uncle Dante, can I meet the players? Can I get an autograph? Can I go on the ice?”
“Maybe the first two,” I said. “Not the third tonight, but I’ll take you another day.”
Then Nicky stepped forward, and I got my first good look at his plus-one.
The guy was maybe early-fifties, average height, average build, the kind of appearance that didn’t draw attention.
He had dark hair, an easy smile, and was wearing dress pants and a jacket that suggested he had money but didn’t need to advertise it.
Something about him made my instincts twitch, though I couldn’t have said why.
“Dante, this is Odin Clark,” Nicky said. “My new boss. He’s a huge hockey fan, and since Jen and I split—” He shrugged. “Figured he’d appreciate the ticket.” I immediately felt guilty I hadn’t asked Nicky how his new job was going.
Odin extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Dante. Nicky talks about you constantly. Congratulations on the trade. Denver’s lucky to have you.”
His grip was firm, professional. His smile was friendly. I forgot everything as the team came on.
I watched the opening face-off from the suite, my mom clutching my arm like she could somehow protect me through proximity even though I wasn’t on the ice.
The puck dropped, and Chicago came out aggressive—the same forechecking intensity they’d brought to game one, but sharper now, more desperate.
They were up 1-0 in the series, and they wanted to make it 2-0 before we remembered we could fight back.
“Why are they all chasing the same man?” my mom asked, as three Chicago players converged on Keegan in the corner.
“That’s forechecking, Ma. They’re trying to force a turnover.”
“It looks violent.”
“It is violent. That’s kind of the point.” My dad understood. He’d been the one that took me to every junior practice even before I’d gotten into tryouts, but she’d gotten a second job to pay for all my shit. She didn’t have a job at all now, I thought with some satisfaction.
She made a disapproving sound but didn’t let go of my arm.
The first period was tight, neither team giving an inch, every puck battle contested like it was game seven instead of game two.
I found myself calling plays in my head before they developed, reading the ice from the suite the way I’d been reading it from the bench.
Max won a crucial face-off in the defensive zone.
Taz made a save that had Anthony jumping up and down.
Cole took a hit that made my mom gasp and me wince in sympathy.
“Is he okay?” she asked as Cole got back up.
“He’s fine. That was clean.”
“Clean? Dante, that man just—”
“Clean means legal, Ma. Within the rules.”
“Your rules are barbaric.”
Marco leaned over. “She said the same thing when you started playing.”
“I remember,” I said.
Chicago scored first, eight minutes into the period. A deflection off Ash’s stick that changed direction just enough to beat Taz high glove side. The building erupted. My mom’s grip on my arm tightened to the point of cutting off circulation.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Plenty of game left.”
But my stomach was doing complicated things, because being down 2-0 in a series was much harder than being down 1-0, and I was sitting in a VIP suite instead of being on the ice where I could actually help.
The second period was when things got interesting.
Max scored first—a beautiful wrist shot from the slot that went bar down so fast their goalie didn’t even move. The suite erupted. Anthony screamed. My mom actually jumped. Marco and Nicky were on their feet, and even Odin Clark was clapping with what looked like genuine enthusiasm.
“Did you see that?” my mom said, turning to me with her face flushed. “Did you see what your captain did?”
“I saw, Ma.”
“That was incredible. How do they move so fast? How do they know where to go?”
“Years of practice,” I said. “And some of them are just—they see the game differently. Like Max. He reads plays three steps ahead of everyone else.”
She studied the ice with new appreciation. “Like chess.”
“Exactly like chess. Except with knives on your feet and people trying to hit you.”
“Still barbaric,” she said, but she was smiling.
The game stayed tied through the second.
Both teams trading chances, the intensity ratcheting up with every shift.
I watched Kincaid behind the bench—his posture, his hand signals, the way he leaned in to say something to Max during a TV timeout that made Max nod once and skate back out with renewed purpose.
I tried not to think about the way his hand had felt on my face yesterday morning.
Tried not to think about waking up curled against his side, or the specific sound of his voice when he’d said “morning” in that rough, early tone.
Tried not to catalogue the distance between where he was standing and where I was standing, or the fact that I wanted to close that distance in ways that had nothing to do with hockey.
I was failing spectacularly at all of those things.
“You okay?” Nicky asked, suddenly beside me.
I blinked. “Yeah. Why?”
“You’ve been staring at the bench for like five minutes.”
“I’m watching the game.”
“The game’s on the ice. You’re watching the bench.” He studied me with that older-brother way that suggested he knew something I didn’t want him to know. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I glanced over uncomfortably at Nicky’s boss because Nicky wasn’t being quiet. Luckily Anthony chose that moment to spill his soda and Lucia needed help, and the conversation mercifully ended.