Chapter 25
Tane
Tane Rivers had taken worse tongue-lashings in his career.
Plenty of them, in fact.
He’d been called every name in the book by coaches who thought volume equaled motivation, had his manhood questioned in front of entire locker rooms, had his contract threatened when the points dried up.
But he always came back strong, faster, and better than ever.
Tremaine’s post-game tirade after the 4-0 loss in Game One against the Titans had been loud, personal, and pointed. Especially the part where the head coach had stared straight at him and declared that they weren’t a retirement home.
That one stung.
Tane had sat there on the bench, hands clasped between his knees, expression blank, and let every word land. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even blink.
Because the truth of the matter was that he recognized the move.
It was an old play, but one of the good ones.
Tremaine had been pulling the same psychological rope-a-dope for years: single out the veteran leader, make him the lightning rod, let the sting burn deep enough that pride and spite turned into fuel. It was ugly. It was effective. And it worked.
Even if it didn’t have any effect on Tane’s performances, it would certainly inject some fire into the team. It was all part of being captain. Except this time, there was more of a sting to it as Tane new he was far closer to the end of this career than at any time before.
And yet…
By Game Seven—after six bruising, bloody-knuckled contests that had left both teams limping—the Toronto Enforcers were still alive. The series was tied 3–3. Winner-take-all. Home ice.
Pine Rise Arena would be electric tomorrow night.
Tane arrived at the rink four hours before puck drop.
The building was quiet in that sacred pre-game hush, only the low hum of the ice being resurfaced, the occasional clank of equipment being moved, the faint echo of a stick tapping against the boards somewhere far down the corridor.
Tane walked the familiar tunnel in his street clothes, gym bag slung over his good shoulder, the bad one already taped beneath his hoodie.
He found Ricki in the training suite, prepping the treatment table with fresh sheets and a tray of syringes. The physio looked up as Tane entered, brown eyes flicking immediately to the way Tane was favoring his left side.
“Captain,” Ricki said. “You’re early.”
“Wanted to get ahead of the crowd,” Tane answered.
He set his bag down and peeled off the hoodie. Underneath was a compression shirt, the right shoulder already wrapped in kinesiology tape.
“I need the numbing shot before the boys get here,” Tane said.
Ricki paused, needle in hand. “We talked about this last week. The lidocaine’s masking the pain, not fixing the tear. Doubling the dose again—”
“I know the risks,” Tane cut in, voice steady. “But I need to feel nothing tonight. Not the grind, not the checks, not the wind-up. Double it.”
Ricki’s jaw worked. He looked at the syringe, then back at Tane, searching for the lie, the bluff, the crack in the armor. Ricki didn’t find one.
“Fine,” Ricki said at last. “But if you can’t lift your arm after the second period, I’m pulling you myself. No arguments.”
Tane gave a single nod. “Deal.”
Ricki prepped the injection site with alcohol, pressed the needle in, and depressed the plunger slowly.
Tane stared at the far wall and breathed through the cold burn that spread under the skin.
When Ricki taped a fresh layer of padding over the spot, Tane rolled the shoulder once—already duller, already distant.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Ricki met his eyes. “Just come back in one piece. You owe it to yourself. You and Jacob have a great future together. You need to be in full working order.”
Tane simply clapped Ricki on the shoulder, smiled ruefully, and walked out.
It was time to bring the big game focus to the table.
* * *
The game was war with a capital W from the opening face-off.
The Titans wanted revenge for the road loss that had tied the series. They hit hard, finished every check, clogged the neutral zone, and dared the Enforcers to break through.
Tane felt the lidocaine working almost too well—his right arm moved without protest, but the feedback was muted, like steering through fog. He compensated with positioning, with vision, with the kind of veteran patience that turned half-chances into threats.
“Keep going men,” Tane roared as he made a block and set up a counterattack. “Rebrov! Move!”
“On it,” Alex replied, his elegant style belying his veteran status.
But midway through the second period, disaster struck.
Jacob carried the puck over the blue line on a rush, head up, looking for the trailer. A Titans defenseman stepped up and drove through him—shoulder to shoulder, clean but devastating.
Jacob’s skates left the ice…
He twisted mid-air and landed hard on his right side, sliding into the boards with a sickening thud.
The whistle blew. The crowd groaned.
Tane was already moving.
Jacob pushed up onto one knee, grimacing, right arm cradled against his ribs.
The trainer jogged out but Jacob waved him off at first, stubborn as ever, then winced again and let the man help him to his feet.
As they skated toward the tunnel, Jacob looked across the ice, locked eyes with Tane, and raised his voice over the noise.
“You’ve got this!” Jacob shouted. “Win it without me, Cap! I know you can!”
The words hit Tane like a slapshot to the chest.
He nodded once—sharp, certain—then turned back to the face-off circle. Jacob disappeared down the tunnel and out of sight but certainly not out of mind.
The bench was quiet after that. No chatter. No jokes. Just grim focus.
Tane gathered the veterans on the next shift change—Alex, Connor, himself.
“No heroics,” Tane said low. “No fancy plays. We grind. We finish checks. We protect the house. We win ugly if we have to. But we win.”
“Got it,” Connor snarled, his fearsome defense never being more important.
“We’re going to take this all the way back to our first championship,” Tane said. “No one thought we could do it. Remember the semifinals? We get ourselves back to that place and we do it now.”
They nodded. No questions.
The third period became a street fight on skates.
The Titans pushed for the dagger. The Enforcers pushed back harder.
Tane blocked two shots off the same shoulder—he felt the impact through the padding but not the pain. Alex buried a rebound on a power play to tie the game at 2–2.
Connor won every board battle in the defensive zone.
Tane himself scored the go-ahead goal at 12:47—nothing flashy, just a greasy deflection off a point shot that slipped under the goalie’s pad.
3–2.
The Titans pulled the goalie with ninety seconds left.
Tane stayed out for the six-on-five, directing traffic, clearing rebounds, eating cross-checks to the back.
With thirty-four seconds remaining, Connor stripped the puck at the blue line, chipped it ahead, and Tane chipped it again—an empty-netter from center ice.
Final score: 4–2 Toronto Enforcers.
The horn sounded. The building exploded, or certainly felt like it was about to.
Tane skated a slow lap with the team, stick raised, letting the noise wash over him. It wasn’t his prettiest game—his skating looked labored, his shot lacked its usual zip—but it was one of his gutsiest.
Character over flash.
Leadership over highlight reel.
In the locker room afterward, the mood was jubilant but exhausted. Gear came off slowly, guys hugged, slapped backs, laughed through the ache.
Coach Tremaine walked in last.
The room quieted instantly.
Tremaine looked around—took in the sweat-soaked jerseys, the taped ankles, the bruises already blooming—then stopped in front of Tane.
“Rivers,” Tremaine said, his voice cold and ominous.
Tane stood, towel around his neck, waiting.
Tremaine’s voice was quieter than it had been after Game One, but no less intense.
“You’re a legend in this league. Tonight you reminded everyone why,” He paused, letting the words settle.
“But legends don’t coast. Legends keep fighting.
The next round, hell, this whole run, is gonna test every piece of you.
Shoulder, legs, heart. I need to see you keep showing up like you did tonight.
Not for me. For them.” He jerked his head toward the rest of the room.
“For the city. For the family. We will not lose!”
Tane swallowed once. “I’ve got more left, Coach.”
Tremaine studied him for a long beat, then clapped him on the good shoulder—firm, approving.
“I know you do,” Tremain said. He turned to the room. “Rest tonight. Film tomorrow. We’re not done. Not by a long shot.”
As Tremaine and the assistants filed out, the door opened again.
Jacob stepped in, his right arm in a sling, ice pack taped to his ribs, but walking under his own power. The room cheered. Guys mobbed him, careful not to jostle the injury.
Jacob waved them off with his good hand, grinning through the pain.
“It’s not bad, he announced. “Separated shoulder, mild. Doc says a week, tops. I’ll be back for whoever’s next.
Rangers, whoever. They can all kiss my ass and eat my ice.
Or eat my ass and kiss my ice. I don’t know.
Fuck it! We’re going all the way, boys!”
Tane met his eyes across the room.
Jacob limped over, stopping in front of him. The grin softened into something warmer, private.
“Told you we could win without me,” Jacob said quietly.
Tane reached out, cupped the back of Jacob’s neck with his good hand, and pulled him in until their foreheads touched.
“You were wrong,” Tane murmured. “We didn’t win without you. We won for you.”
Jacob’s eyes shone. “Pah. Same thing.”
Tane pulled him into a careful one-armed hug, mindful of the sling. Around them the locker room filled with low laughter, the clink of water bottles, the soft sound of tape being ripped off.