Chapter 22 Roman
ROMAN
The locker room the next day feels different.
Not the usual pre-game energy—focused, controlled, everyone in their routines. This is tighter. Sharper. Like everyone’s wound an extra turn.
Because Jason Martinez is skating onto our ice tonight wearing the C for Miami.
I’m taping my stick when Barrett walks in, and I know from his expression this is going to be a speech.
“Alright, listen up.” He waits until everyone’s attention is on him. “Tonight’s going to be chippy. We all know it. Martinez plays dirty, always has. He’s going to try to get in your heads. He’s going to talk shit. He’s going to take liberties.”
Brody’s jaw is already tight from across the room. He’s been quiet all day—the kind of quiet that means he’s thinking too much.
“I need everyone focused on hockey,” Barrett continues. “Not revenge. Not personal shit. Hockey. We win this game by playing our system, not by getting baited into stupid penalties.”
His eyes land on Brody. “That goes double for you.”
“I’m fine,” Brody says.
“You’re not fine. Your wife’s ex-husband is on the ice tonight. You’re the opposite of fine.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can. I’m just making sure you remember you’re handling it by playing hockey, not by trying to murder him.”
“Can’t I do both?”
“No.”
The room laughs, tension breaking slightly. But Barrett’s not done.
“Martinez is going to target specific guys. Varga, you’re one. Brody, you’re two. Dex, you’re three. He’s going to try to make you react. He’s going to say things—” He looks at Brody. “He’s going to be a piece of shit. Do not give him what he wants.”
“What about what we want?” I ask.
“We don’t start it, but we sure as hell finish it.” Barrett looks around the room. “Everyone clear? We play hockey. We play hard. We play smart. And if Martinez wants to take stupid penalties, we make him pay on the power play.”
Everyone nods. Except Brody, who’s still staring at his skates.
After Barrett leaves, I move to sit next to him.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Brody.”
He looks at me. “I know. Play hockey. Win. Best revenge.”
“Exactly.” I keep my voice low. “Because the best revenge on Martinez isn’t punching him. It’s beating him. Making him watch you succeed with the woman he lost.”
Warm-ups feel normal.
We go through our drills, take our shots. Luca’s dialed in at the net, tracking every puck with that intensity that makes him either the best goalie in the league or completely unhinged. Maybe both.
Miami’s on the other end doing their warm-ups. Martinez is easy to spot—big, physical, wearing the C like he earned it instead of getting it by default when their previous captain retired.
He catches me looking and grins. Says something to his linemate. They both laugh.
Yeah. It’s going to be that kind of game.
Back in the locker room for final preparations, everyone’s locked in. Rodriguez is listening to music, nodding his head. Brody’s just staring at the wall.
“Alright boys,” I say, standing up. Everyone looks at me. “We know what this is. We know who we’re playing. And we know they’re going to try to make it personal.”
“It is personal,” someone mutters.
“For some of us, yeah. But we don’t play personal hockey. We play Puckaneers hockey. Fast, physical, smart.” I look at Brody. “We win because we’re better. Not because we lose our heads.”
“But if they want to go,” Dex adds, “we’re ready.”
“Damn right we are.”
We head out for the anthem and I can already feel it—the crowd knows what this game means. They’re loud. Energized. Ready to watch us either dominate or implode.
The anthem plays. Martinez is staring down our bench the entire time. Making sure everyone sees him. Making sure we know he’s here.
Puck drops and within the first thirty seconds I know Barrett was right.
This is going to be a war.
The first shift makes it clear how this game’s going to go.
Martinez is on me the second I touch the puck. Elbow high. Stick across my ribs. The kind of cheap shit that doesn’t get called but hurts like hell.
“Still playing captain, Varga?” He grins when we’re tangled up in the corner. “Heard you were too busy fucking the staff to actually do your job.”
I don’t bite. Shove him off me, win the puck battle, move on.
But he’s not done. He’s never done.
Three minutes in, Miami takes a penalty. We don’t score on the power play because Martinez is out there shadowing me and every time I get near the net, he’s cross-checking me into the goalie.
The ref doesn’t call it.
“That’s boarding!” Barrett yells from the bench when Martinez drives me into the glass.
Still no call.
The game opens back up and it’s chaos. Fast, physical, everyone finishing checks. The crowd’s screaming. Both teams are pissed off and it shows.
Seven minutes in, Martinez says something to Brody behind the net. I don’t hear what, but I see Brody’s response.
“Fuck,” I mutter, already skating toward them.
But Martinez doesn’t fight. Just backs away, hands up, grinning while Brody gets two minutes for slashing.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Brody yells as the ref pushes him toward the box.
We kill the penalty. Barely. My lungs are burning by the time Brody’s back out.
Miami scores first. Some bullshit deflection off someone’s skate. 1-0.
I answer back four minutes later. Rodriguez feeds me a perfect pass and I bury it. 1-1.
The goal feels good for exactly thirty seconds before Martinez is back on me.
“Nice shot,” he says during the next faceoff. “You always this easy to read?”
I ignore him. Win the draw. Skate away.
Every shift we’re out together, he’s talking. Chirping. Saying shit about our system, about me, trying to get someone to snap.
“Must be nice being captain when your team carries you,” he says during another board battle.
I take the hit, win the puck, get it out. Don’t react. Don’t give him what he wants.
The period ends tied 1-1.
We’re all pissed off, bruised, and ready to murder someone.
Barrett doesn’t sit down in the locker room. “That was undisciplined as hell. Martinez is in your heads and you’re letting him win. Be better than him. Play hockey. Win the fucking game.”
He points at Brody. “Keep your gloves on, Carter.”
I lean back in my stall, breathing hard. My ribs hurt where Martinez has been hitting me. My shoulder’s sore from getting slammed into the boards all period.
He’s targeting me specifically. And it’s working.
Second period is worse.
They’re faster, meaner, and they smell blood in the water. Martinez is everywhere—hitting, chirping, pushing every boundary.
Five minutes in, he catches me with an elbow to the head during a scrum. Not quite high enough for a penalty, but enough to make my vision blur for a second.
“You good, Cap?” Rodriguez asks when I get to the bench.
“Fine.”
I’m not fine. My head’s pounding. But I’m not sitting.
Miami scores. 2-1. They’re up.
We tie it when Dex rips one from the point that deflects in. 2-2.
Then everything unravels.
Martinez catches Brody with a late hit behind the play. Brody goes down hard.
The whistle blows, but before anyone can react, Martinez is standing over him.
Whatever he says has Brody up in a heartbeat.
Both drop their gloves and go at it—fists flying, both landing shots. The linesmen try to break it up but Brody’s not stopping. He delivers a hit that snaps Martinez’s head back, then another, and another.
Martinez hits the ice and Brody follows him down. Over the noise I hear him scream.
“Say her name again. I fucking dare you.”
“That’s enough!” The ref’s yelling but Brody gets one more punch in before they pull him off.
Both benches are up. Players from both teams are shoving each other at the red line. The crowd’s screaming.
It’s complete chaos.
“You’re done!” the ref yells at Brody. “Game misconduct!”
“Worth it!” Brody yells back, blood on his knuckles as they escort him off.
Martinez gets five for fighting. Brody gets five for fighting plus the misconduct. He’s done for the night.
But we’re not done. Not even close.
Miami takes another penalty thirty seconds later—slashing Dex in the hands. Now we’re on a five-on-three power play with our best defenseman gone.
We don’t score.
Miami kills it off, and when they’re back to full strength, they come at us hard.
The game’s completely off the rails now. Every whistle is a shoving match. Every hit is borderline late. The refs have lost control and everyone knows it.
Rodriguez takes a roughing penalty. Then Anderson gets one for slashing. Then Miami takes two more—one for boarding, one for cross-checking Dex.
The penalty box is full. Both teams are cycling players in and out every two minutes.
“This is fucking unbelievable,” Dex mutters during a TV timeout.
He’s right. The game’s more about not getting kicked out than actually playing hockey at this point.
Martinez is still on me every shift. Talking. Hitting. Pushing.
“Heard your coach is shopping you around,” he says during a faceoff. “Makes sense. You’re washed.”
I win the draw. Don’t answer.
“How’s it feel being captain of a team that doesn’t respect you?”
I skate away. But he’s under my skin now whether I want to admit it or not.
Period ends 2-2.
We’re exhausted, battered, and barely staying on the ice long enough to play.
Barrett’s pacing the locker room. “The penalty minutes are a fucking embarrassment.” He looks at me. “Roman—you’re wearing the C. Lead. Don’t let him drag you into his bullshit.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Everyone can see it.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“Third period,” I tell the team. “We end this.”
Third period starts and we’re down our best defenseman and Miami knows it.
They come at us fast, pressing the advantage, taking runs at everyone. We’re scrambling to adjust, trying to cover the gaps Brody left, but it’s like playing with one arm tied behind our back.
Martinez is still out there, still talking, still making every shift personal.