Chapter twenty-three #2
The second period started with Chicago sending out Markov and Jensen—their two biggest bodies, the guys they wheeled out when they wanted to send a message like they had before.
They lined up against Dante’s line.
I felt my jaw tighten. Felt my dragon stir beneath my ribs, a low rumble of protective fury that I had to actively push down.
They were trying to intimidate him. Trying to make him think twice about going into corners, about battling for loose pucks, about doing all the things that had made him dangerous in the first period.
It didn’t work.
The first time Markov tried to line him up along the boards, Dante slipped the check so smoothly it looked choreographed. He was out and gone before Markov could adjust, and I watched Markov’s face register confusion before he lumbered after him.
The second time, Jensen tried to catch him with a hip check at center ice. Dante saw it coming from three strides out—I could tell by the way his shoulders shifted—and he cut inside so sharply that Jensen hit nothing but air and nearly fell over his own skates.
“Russo making those veteran defenders look foolish tonight,” the play-by-play announcer’s voice filtered through the arena speakers during a stoppage. “That’s twice now he’s made them miss.”
“Kid’s got eyes in the back of his head,” Marty replied. “And he’s quick. You can’t teach that kind of acceleration.”
Antoine was on the ice for the next shift, and I watched him track Dante across the neutral zone with an intensity that had nothing to do with hockey. This was personal now.
Dante picked up a loose puck behind the net and Antoine closed on him hard, stick high, trying to pin him against the glass. But Dante was already moving, protecting the puck with his body, and when Antoine reached—overcommitted, too eager—Dante spun away clean and fed it up to Cole for a breakout.
Antoine slammed his stick against the boards in frustration.
Two minutes later it happened again. Dante stripped the puck off Antoine in the neutral zone—just reached in and took it like Antoine had handed it to him—and I watched Antoine’s face go red even from across the ice.
He chased Dante into the offensive zone, and when the whistle blew, he was still chirping, still trying to get in his head.
Dante skated to the bench without looking at him once.
“You know,” Pat said during the next commercial break, his voice carrying that tone announcers used when they were being diplomatic, “it must be difficult for Devereux to watch Russo develop like this. He spent a lot of time working with the kid in Chicago, teaching him the finer points of the game.”
“Absolutely,” Marty agreed, and there was something in his voice that suggested he knew exactly what he was implying.
“Devereux was very generous with his time, very patient. And now we’re seeing all those skills come together.
The acceleration, the edge work, the ability to read the play—those are things Russo learned from veterans like Devereux. ”
“Though I have to say, Marty, it looks like the student might be outpacing the teacher tonight.”
“It does look that way, doesn’t it?”
I bit back a smile.
Five minutes into the period, Antoine tried his signature move—the one where he’d lean into contact, then throw himself backward at the last second and sell it like he’d been tripped. He’d drawn probably fifty penalties with it over his career.
He tried it on Dante.
Came in along the boards, let Dante get close, then went down like he’d been shot. His arms flew up, his stick clattered away, and he slid dramatically toward the corner while looking back at the ref with an expression of pure outrage.
The ref didn’t raise his arm.
Antoine stayed down for a beat, waiting, and when nothing happened, he pushed himself up and stared at the official with his hands spread in a what the hell gesture.
The ref just shook his head and pointed for the play to continue.
I watched Antoine’s face go through several emotions in rapid succession—confusion, anger, humiliation. He skated back to the bench and said something sharp to his coach, gesturing toward the ice.
His coach just shrugged.
“Devereux looking for a call there,” Pat said, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now. “But the official wasn’t buying it. Clean play by Russo.”
“Devereux’s had success with that move in the past,” Marty added. “But you have to wonder if the refs are starting to wise up to it. Or maybe Russo’s just too quick to actually make contact.”
The rest of the period unfolded like watching someone slowly lose their grip.
Antoine was still out there every other shift, still trying to assert dominance, but he was chasing now.
Playing angry instead of smart. He took a stupid penalty with eight minutes left—crosschecked Ash in front of the net for no reason except frustration—and we made them pay for it.
Dante didn’t score on the power play, but he set up Keegan for a one-timer that the Chicago goalie barely saw. 3-0.
When the horn sounded for the end of the second period, Antoine skated off the ice looking like a man who’d just realized his nightmare was real.
I walked into our room and found twenty men who believed they were going to win.
“Twenty minutes,” I said, and let the silence hold for a beat. “You’re up three goals. They’re going to come out desperate. They’re going to throw everything at us. Bodies, cheap shots, whatever they think will rattle you.”
I looked at Taz. “Stay sharp. They’ll be shooting from everywhere.”
“Always am,” he said.
“Renaud, keep them in their zone, keep them tired, keep them chasing.” I turned to Dante’s line. “And you three—smart hockey. No heroes. We don’t need to score again. We just need to not let them back in it.”
Cole nodded. Dante’s jaw was set in that particular way that meant he was locked in.
“Twenty minutes,” I said again. “And we’re going home.”
Chicago scored four minutes into the third.
Briggs got it—a shot from the point that Taz never saw until it was past him. The arena erupted, Chicago’s bench came alive, and I watched their coach start rolling lines faster, throwing everything forward.
3-1. Still comfortable, but no longer safe.
“Stay calm,” I called down the bench. “Nothing’s changed.”
But I could feel the shift in energy. Could see it in the way Chicago was skating now—faster, hungrier, finally playing like men who’d remembered they were supposed to be good at this.
Eight minutes left. Antoine’s line came out, and I watched him bark something at the rookie on his wing—the kid who’d been called up from the AHL. The rookie nodded, his face pale under his helmet.
They cycled in our zone. Antoine positioned himself in the slot, stick blade on the ice, clearly expecting the puck. The rookie had it along the wall, and instead of feeding Antoine, he looked off and passed it back to Kowalski at the point.
It was the right play. Kowalski had a better angle.
But Antoine lost his mind.
He threw his arms up, screaming something at the rookie that I couldn’t hear but could definitely read on his lips. The rookie’s shoulders hunched. Kowalski took the shot—Taz saved it easily—and when the whistle blew, Antoine skated directly at the kid and shoved him.
Not a hockey play. Just pure frustration, putting his gloves on the rookie’s chest and yelling in his face. His own rookie.
The arena went quiet for a beat. Then the boos started.
Not just from our fans. From Chicago’s fans too. Because whatever Antoine was saying, whatever he was doing, it was ugly and obvious and had nothing to do with winning a hockey game.
The ref skated over and said something sharp. Antoine ignored him, still jawing at the rookie, until his own captain had to pull him away.
“Jesus,” Max muttered beside me. “He’s completely lost it.”
“Good,” I said.
Five minutes left and we counted down. Chicago pulled their goalie with three and a half still on the clock—desperate, aggressive, exactly what a team down two goals in an elimination game had to do.
We killed time. Iced the puck twice. Took a penalty with two minutes left that made my dragon snarl, but Taz stood on his head and Chicago couldn’t convert.
One minute left.
Dante’s line was out. I’d sent them for defense, for smart play, for the ability to just survive until the clock hit zero.
Chicago won a draw in our zone. They cycled, looking for a shooting lane, and their defenseman at the point tried to walk the blue line to create space. Dante read it perfectly—stepped up, stripped the puck, and suddenly he had nothing but ice between him and the empty net.
“Go!” I shouted, though he couldn’t hear me over the roar.
He went.
Antoine was chasing him—of course it was Antoine, because the universe had a sense of irony—but Dante had two steps on him and the speed to keep it. Antoine was reaching, hooking, doing everything short of tackling him, but Dante protected the puck with his body exactly the way I’d taught him.
They hit the blue line. Thirty feet from the net. Antoine lunged, trying for one last desperate check, and Dante did it.
The hip move. The one I’d drilled into him a hundred times in practice. He shifted his weight, turned his hip into the contact, and used Antoine’s momentum against him. Antoine went down in a tangle of limbs, and Dante was free.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t showboat. Just shot it clean into the empty net with fifteen seconds left on the clock.
4-1.
The arena lost its mind, even some of the Chicago fans. Our bench emptied onto the ice as the final horn sounded. I stood there behind the boards, my hands gripping the rail, watching Dante get mobbed by his teammates while Antoine slowly picked himself up off the ice.
We’d won.
We were going to the second round.
I let myself exhale for the first time in twenty minutes. Let myself feel the satisfaction of watching a plan come together, of seeing players execute exactly what we’d worked on, of beating a team that had thought they’d already won.