Chapter eight #2
The third period started with Chicago pressing hard. They knew they needed this game. They knew if we tied the series, the momentum shifted. They were throwing everything at us—hits, shots, desperation plays that worked about half the time and looked spectacular when they did.
Antoine got the puck at center ice ten minutes into the third.
I watched him the way I’d been watching him all game—cataloging his movements, his positioning, the ease he brought to the ice that I’d once admired and now recognized as something else entirely.
He crossed the blue line with two defenders draped on him, and for a second, I thought they had him contained.
Then he did something with his stick—subtle, deliberate, a quick lift of Keegan’s blade that looked like nothing from the stands but was absolutely intentional.
The ref’s angle was wrong. He didn’t see it.
Keegan’s stick came up and caught Antoine in the face, completely accidental, a direct result of Antoine’s manipulation.
Antoine went down like he’d been shot.
The whistle blew. The crowd erupted. And the ref’s arm went up, pointing at Keegan with the certainty of someone who’d only seen half the play and had decided that was enough.
Four minutes. They gave Keegan four minutes for something that had been engineered by Antoine with the precision of a man who’d spent a career learning exactly how to make things look like someone else’s fault.
It was easy to see now I was at a distance.
Chicago scored thirty seconds into the power play.
A one-timer from the point that deflected off someone’s skate and somehow found its way through three bodies and past Taz’s outstretched pad.
The building lost its mind. The Chicago bench was on its feet.
And Antoine was at center ice, not celebrating, just skating back to the bench with a look of satisfaction that made my hands curl into fists.
He’d done it on purpose. All of it. The stick lift, the fall, the way he’d sold it to the ref. He’d manufactured a power play goal with the same cold calculation he’d used to manufacture my file, my reputation, the version of me that had shown up in Denver bruised and accused.
And there was nothing I could do about it from a suite in a suit with my family watching.
The final score was 3-1. Chicago. We were down 2-0 in the series.
The suite was quiet after the final horn.
My mom’s hand found mine and squeezed. Marco said something about the refs that I didn’t quite catch.
Anthony was asking why we lost in that seven-year-old way that suggested he’d been promised we’d win and was now dealing with the betrayal of unmet expectations.
I stood at the glass and watched the team skate off.
Watched Kincaid’s back disappear down the tunnel, the set of his shoulders carrying the weight of a loss that put us two games from elimination.
Watched Max tap his stick against the boards once, twice, the way he did when he was containing something.
“Come on,” I said finally. “I told them we’d meet them in the locker room.”
“Are you sure that’s—” my mom started.
“They’ll want to meet you again,” I said, more certainly than I felt. “Max insisted.”
We made our way down through the arena corridors, following the directions I’d memorized from two years of walking these halls.
Anthony was bouncing again, the loss apparently forgotten in the face of meeting actual NHL players.
Lucia kept smoothing her hair. Marco had his arm around Nicky’s shoulders in that big-brother way that suggested he was trying to keep Nicky from thinking too hard about his recent breakup.
And Odin Clark walked slightly behind all of them, taking everything in with that easy, friendly interest that still made my instincts twitch for reasons I couldn’t name.
The security guard at the locker room entrance checked my credentials, nodded at my face in recognition of the bruising, and waved us through. “Give them ten minutes,” he said. “They’re still in there with coach.”
We waited in the corridor. I could hear Kincaid’s voice through the door—not the words, just the cadence of it, that flat echo that meant he was delivering something important and expected it to be heard.
Then silence. Then the sound of movement, equipment being stripped, the rhythm of a locker room after a loss.
The door opened. Max came out first, still in his gear from the waist up, and his eyes found mine immediately.
“The rest of your family?” he asked.
“Yeah. This is—”
But he was already moving forward, extending his hand to my mom with the same warmth he’d shown at lunch yesterday. “Mrs. Russo. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry we couldn’t get you a better result.”
My mom took his hand and held it with both of hers. “You played beautifully. That goal you scored—I’ll remember that for the rest of my life.”
Something in Max’s face softened. “Thank you. That means a lot.” He turned to Marco, to Lucia, shaking hands and learning names with the efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Then Anthony, who was staring up at him like he’d just met God.
“You’re the captain,” Anthony said, with seven-year-old certainty.
“I am,” Max confirmed.
“That’s so cool.”
“It’s a lot of responsibility,” Max said seriously. “But I have good teammates. Like your uncle.”
Anthony looked at me with new appreciation, and I felt something warm settle in my chest.
The rest of the team started filtering out.
Keegan, still looking furious about the penalty.
Cole and Phoenix together, as always. Taz, who crouched down to Anthony’s level and started explaining goalie equipment in a way that had the kid completely mesmerized.
Ash, who shook everyone’s hands and then went to stand slightly behind Max that kinda confirmed what I’d noticed yesterday.
And then Coach came out.