Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Major Penalty - A serious infraction resulting in a five-minute penalty.
Cole
The ice in St. Louis felt harder than usual—slicker, meaner. Maybe it was just me. Road games always felt colder, and Father's interference made everything worse, but I wasn’t about to admit that to anyone. We had a game to win.
We’d come off a good run. The boys were confident, hungry. Taranis was sharp in net. Max was already chirping before warm-up even ended. Everything should’ve gone right.
Then the Sentinels started their usual crap.
They didn’t play to win—they played to get under your skin. It was all cheap hits and dirty hooks behind the refs’ backs. Every time I lined up for a face-off, Marchand—their center, built like a bulldog with a smirk to match—leaned close enough that I could smell the damn mint gum he chewed.
“Still trying to play leader, Armstrong?” he sneered. “Heard your rookies do the thinking for you. Guess some boys just need their hands held.”
I kept my mouth shut. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t react. Not again.
But he kept at it.
“Tell me something—does Renard talk to you like that off the ice too? Or do you call him sir?”
I saw red.
Before I even thought, I’d shoved him hard into the boards. The puck hadn’t dropped yet. Whistle. Penalty.
“Two minutes for roughing, Armstrong.”
The crowd roared. Their fans loved it. Marchand just smirked from the ice as he lined up for the power play.
From the box, I watched helplessly as they cycled the puck around like they were running drills. Taranis made two solid saves, but the third deflected off a stick and trickled through.
1–0. Because I’d lost my temper.
When I got out, I skated harder than I had all night—trying to make it up. I set up plays, fought for pucks along the boards, barked orders to keep everyone moving. Max got one back for us near the end of the second, and for a second, it felt like we might claw it back.
Then Marchand caught my eye across the ice, grinning. Just that smirk, nothing more. And I hesitated—half a heartbeat, no more—but it was enough.
A turnover. A rush. Goal.
2–1.
We pulled the goalie in the last minute. They got the empty-netter. 3–1 final.
In the locker room, nobody said much. You didn’t need to. I could feel it—the disappointment, the frustration, the weight of a game that had slipped through our fingers because of me.
I sat on the bench staring at my gloves. My knuckles ached from that first hit.
Taranis passed me a bottle of water on his way by and muttered, “You’ll get him next time.”
I nodded, but I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was, Marchand hadn’t just beaten me on the scoreboard. He’d gotten in my head—and I’d let him.
That was the part that stung the most.
Next time, I promised myself, it wouldn’t happen again.
Next time, I’d make damn sure I was the one under his skin.
Post-Game Report: Dragons Fall 3–1 to St. Louis Sentinels
St. Louis, MO – The Colorado Dragons couldn’t hold their recent momentum on the road Friday night, falling 3–1 to the St. Louis Sentinels in a penalty-laden matchup that saw tempers flare early and often.
Despite a strong first period and solid goaltending from veteran Taranis Rhys, the Dragons’ discipline faltered midway through the game, allowing the Sentinels to capitalize on a costly second-period power play.
Center Cole Armstrong took a roughing penalty after an altercation with Sentinels center Brandon Marchand—an incident that seemed to shift the game’s tone.
Head coach Theron Kincaid was measured post-game.
“We can’t let emotion dictate our play,” Kincaid said. “St. Louis is known for their physical game, and they got the reaction they wanted tonight. We’ll learn from it.”
Armstrong, visibly composed in the locker room, kept his response short.
“That one’s on me,” he said. “I let myself get distracted, and they made us pay for it. I owe the guys a better game next time.”
Off the record, a few teammates said the same thing every fan watching could see—Armstrong had skated like a man trying to atone, logging over twenty-four minutes of ice time and creating most of the Dragons’ offensive chances in the third. But the damage was already done.
The Sentinels closed it out with an empty-netter, sealing the Dragons’ first loss in five games.
The Dragons return home to face the Chicago Grizzlies.
As the locker room cleared, I lingered alone for a moment, still in half my gear, helmet on the bench beside me. No one heard what I muttered under my breath, quiet enough for the reporters’ recorders to miss:
“Next time he opens his mouth, I’ll make him eat his own stick.”
Phoenix
I’d told myself I didn’t care. I told myself I cared so little I wasn’t even going to watch the game.
I lied. Of course I watched it. I watched the whole damn thing, hunched on Cole’s expensive couch with a glass of tap water and a bowl of noodles I’d heated up myself, because I'd never learned to cook anything that wasn't in a can or a packet.
I didn’t even bother with the lights. I just sat there in the dark, flickering blue and white and the sound of the commentators echoing around the empty apartment.
There was a weird comfort in it, like I’d found some secret way to be invisible.
And I was rooting for them, even though I told myself I didn’t care.
But the first time they mentioned Cole’s name, my insides tightened and I had to grab the pillow and hug it to my chest.
He was so fucking good. I wasn’t an expert or anything, but even I could see the way he owned the ice, the way the other players watched him.
They looked to him for everything. He set up plays and broke them apart, and when he lost that opening face-off, I actually swore out loud, which was stupid, but I did it anyway.
But then the Sentinels started getting dirty.
I saw it in the way they moved, all elbows and cheap shots.
The cameras zoomed in on Cole and the other guy, Marchand, jawing at each other over the face-off dot.
I knew that look. I’d seen it on the street a hundred times—the guy who wanted to push every button just to see if you’d break.
And Cole did break. He shoved him, hard, right in front of everyone. The ref’s whistle was like a gunshot.
Two minutes for roughing.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, not sure why it hurt so much to watch.
I wanted him to win. I wanted him to not be the guy in the penalty box, shoulders hunched and jaw tight, face blank like it didn’t matter.
Because I’d seen what that blank face looked like up close, and I knew exactly how much it hurt.
The Sentinels scored. The commentators blamed Armstrong. They didn’t even try to hide it.
He came out of the box and played like a man possessed.
I could see it, the way he moved, skating harder than anyone else, setting up plays, but it didn’t matter.
They lost anyway. The last goal was an empty-netter, and all I could think was how he was probably blaming himself for every second of it.
The commentary after the game was brutal. They called him the reason they lost. Said he couldn’t keep his head. Said he was a liability if he couldn’t control himself.
I wanted to punch the screen.
But when they showed him for the interview, still in half his gear, helmet off and hair damp with sweat, I just felt tired. He looked so alone, sitting there with his gloves in his lap. Like he was waiting for someone to tell him it was okay, even though he’d never believe it.
I stayed on the couch until well after midnight, watching highlights and interviews and replays until my eyes hurt.
At some point, when I went to bed, I realized my hand was pressed over the spot where the envelope of cash was hidden under my pillow, like I was holding it in case some goon came through the door and tried to take it back.
I watched the miserable way Cole stared at his own hands like he’d never seen them before, like maybe if he looked hard enough, he could erase the entire night.
I hated thinking about how he’d take that loss.
I hated thinking about how I was the reason he’d been distracted in the first place.
Stupid, really. But it hurt. No sense pretending it didn’t.
I couldn’t sleep. Not even a little. The inside of my mouth was raw from where my teeth had cut the skin, but more than that, my head wouldn’t shut up.
I’d been given money to betray him, but all I wanted was to fix one thing for him, just one, like maybe that would balance out the scales for all the shit I’d brought down on him.
At least I could cheer for him. At least I could make sure he came home to something better than the static silence of his perfect apartment.I made a list. I actually made a list, which was pathetic, but it gave my hands something to do.
I googled what top athletes ate after games.
Protein. Carbs. Hydration. I had no clue if Cole liked half the stuff on the lists, but I figured anything was better than nothing.
I took inventory of his fridge, careful to keep the lights low so I didn’t trigger the headache lurking behind my eyes.
There was enough to make chicken and pasta, and I could definitely manage to make that.
I made a note to wash every dish so he wouldn’t walk in and see a mess.
I even made up the couch so he’d have a place to crash if he was too tired to get to his room.
I stripped the sheets off my bed, too, because I’d bled on them the first night, and put them in the washer.
By the time I was done, it was nearly three in the morning and I still wasn’t tired.
I just sat there, staring at the dark city through the windows, wondering how I’d ever gotten here.