26. April 3, Sunday #2
Her hair was wrapped in a brightly patterned scarf, leaving the line of her neck exposed above the crisp collar of her white polo. The little crease between her brows—her solving-twelve-problems-at-once look—was firmly in place.
She glanced up, almost absently, eyes scanning the tunnel. Landed on him. Her face changed. The professional mask softened; her mouth curved into a small, private smile reserved only for him. Her chin dipped in a tiny salute.
Good luck. You’ve got this. I’m here.
Heat eased a fraction along his shoulders. His chest loosened like someone had let out a notch.
He tipped his chin back at her, a barely-there nod. I see you.
For a heartbeat, the noise dropped away. That look, the crackle of something steady and secret and theirs.
Then someone called her name, and she turned back, already moving. The moment was gone.
It had been only a second. Still, when Ilya looked back at Christian, the kid had already pulled his helmet on.
“Protect our house,” Ilya said, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Third period starts now.”
“Got it, Cap,” Christian said, face determined. “No fear.”
They came out harder.
From the opening faceoff of the third, it felt less like skating through syrup. Sticks were in the right lanes. Feet were where they belonged. They won a couple of races they’d been losing all night.
Halfway through, they finally got a bounce. Tommy muscled the puck to the net like a fridge on skates, Jason hacked at the rebound three times, and on the third try it slid between the goalie’s pads.
The building lost its mind.
Tie game. Crowd on its feet.
On the bench, guys smacked backs, breathed steam, chugged water. Coach barked adjustments.
Through it, Ilya stayed locked, his mental map of the ice never fully shutting off.
Christian’s first couple of third-period shifts were okay. Not great. But at least where he should be.
He got deep twice when he needed to. Took a bump to make a safe play on the wall and stayed on his feet. Ripped one decent shot that went three feet wide but looked like an actual decision.
It was enough to tell the part of Ilya’s brain that wanted to worry that maybe, just maybe, the talk had helped and not hurt.
Two minutes and change left on the clock.
Still tied.
One bad shift, one stupid mistake, and the whole night swung.
The opposing goalie steered a shot to the corner, their D chipped it, and instead of a clean clear, the puck wrapped around the boards with sluggish intent.
It came around the wall on Christian’s side like a slow softball toss.
Exactly the play Mitch described.
From his spot by the blue line, Ilya saw the geometry lay itself out in an instant.
Patrick, their other defenseman, pinched to keep it in. The opposing winger came off the wall with speed from the other side, cutting hard toward the same patch of ice. The puck slowed just enough to make it a true fifty-fifty.
Christian saw it too.
For a heartbeat, he did what he’d been doing all night—there was the slightest hitch in his stride, the tiny shift back that said, give space. Let the D take it.
Then his eyes flicked up.
Not to the seats this time.
To Ilya.
Full commit.
No fear.
He went.
Head lower than usual, skates churning, shoulders squared. Not reckless. Just decisive in the wrong half-second.
It took maybe half a breath too long for the rest of the world to adjust.
By the time Ilya registered that the opposing winger had more speed and a better angle, that Patrick–their own D–had committed fully to the pinch, the tracks were already locked.
From the stands, it probably looked like any hard hit. But from ten feet away, it was a car crash in slow motion.
Bodies converged. The puck became incidental. The opposing winger’s shoulder met Christian’s chest just as Patrick’s hip clipped him from behind. The glass gave, then pushed back.
Christian’s upper body twisted. His head snapped sideways and back, meeting the plexi at exactly the wrong angle.
There was a sound that wasn’t quite the usual thump.
Less slap.
More crack.
He dropped like someone had cut a string.
The puck skittered free toward the point.
The ref’s whistle cut the air. Play screeched to a halt.
The roar of the crowd sucked inward, that horrible collective, “Oooh,” rolling through thousands of throats.
Ilya was moving before he even processed what happened. His heart hammered up into his mouth. He got there just ahead of the trainers.
Christian lay on his back, body crumpled wrong, one glove half off. His chest rose, but his eyes—
His eyes were open and staring straight up at the rafters.
No squint against the lights. No blink as people loomed. No tracking when Ilya dropped to a knee in his line of sight.
“Christian,” Ilya barked, hand hovering over his shoulder, not quite touching. “Hey. Look at me. You with us?”
Nothing.
A trainer slid in, one knee banging off the ice, bag thumping down. “Christian, can you hear me?” he said, voice firm, too calm for how fast his hands moved. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
No squeeze.
No flinch.
“Hey, hey, stay with us,” Ty called, kneeling a couple of feet away, his usual easy tone stripped down to bare nerves.
The world shrank to that circle.
Cold air knifed through Ilya’s lungs.
He became aware, distantly, of the silence. Thousands of people almost completely quiet.
One thought screamed under all of it, louder than the whistle, louder than the trainer’s instructions, louder than the nearby panting breaths.
I told him to go in.
I told him to go.
One trainer braced Christian’s head, barking, “Nobody touch his helmet.”
Medical staff arrived within seconds, shoving Ilya gently to the side as they rolled up a stretcher and laid a board on the ice beside Christian. His view was blocked as they stabilized the kid’s neck.
They moved him with practiced care, arms crossed over his chest, straps across his head, hips, and legs.
He didn’t fight. Didn’t argue. Didn’t move.
Just lay there, eyes open, looking past everything.
As they wheeled him toward the Zamboni tunnel, the crowd finally remembered what to do. Applause rolled around the bowl, muted but earnest. Sticks tapped on the ice, the sound louder than Ilya would have expected.
He turned and saw both benches emptied, both teams standing on the ice behind him.
All of them trying, in the only way they could, to make sure a rookie known for his earnest, honest play knew he wasn’t alone.
Every single one of them wearing the same sober, concerned expression when they caught sight of Christian’s frozen gaze.
The sticks kept tapping until the stretcher disappeared through the Zamboni doors and into the concrete shadows beyond.
It felt like prayer and apology and plea all at once.
Ilya followed the stretcher as far as he could, matching their slow glide, hoping for some sign of movement.
He wanted to say something.
Anything.
You’re okay. We’ve got you. I’m sorry.
The words jammed in his throat.
Christian’s eyes never focused.
Ilya stood at the glass as staff shut the doors behind the medical team. Within seconds, the stretcher was gone.
The emptiness left behind felt obscene.
He turned back toward the bench.
The ice felt foreign under his blades.
His legs carried him there by habit. His brain lagged behind.
Coach stepped up on the boards, voice clipped but steady. “We’ll get updates as soon as we can,” he said, projecting just enough. “Short shifts. Heads up. We finish. Got it?”
A ragged chorus of, “Yeahs,” and nods answered. Thin.
Ilya dropped onto the bench, gloves tugged tight over hands he suddenly couldn’t feel. His breath roared in his ears.
He was supposed to do it now. Flip the captain switch.
Set his jaw, meet a few stares, say the line he’d said dozens of times in different forms. We play for him now. We stay sharp. We don’t let this beat us.
His mouth didn’t seem interested.
Instead, his brain did what it always did when there was a crack in the dam. It started listing.
Kira.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard his sister’s actual voice. Weeks, at least. Texts, sure; long, unpunctuated streams about grant deadlines and board members.
Kira: SUPER BUSY CALL LATER.
Then nothing later.
Here he was, a big brother who prided himself on showing up and keeping tabs, and he couldn’t find thirty minutes to actually call his sister and make sure she was okay.
Jason.
He’d watched Jason bristle under management and PR. They’d had one ugly, honest conversation, then life surged forward; road trips, clinics, meetings. Jason’s jokes got meaner. His smiles didn’t quite hit his eyes.
How many of them were skating like Christian had been? Heads a second behind, eyes on something else, telling Ilya they were fine because they didn’t know how not to?
Fido.
The damn dog haunted the garage like a ghost he’d promised to lay to rest.
He’d told the guys he’d handle it. I’ll spend more time down there. Be patient. We’ll get him. He’d gone down there, sat on his tailgate, talked to the dark.
Then the season had tightened. Days stretched between visits. Bowls of carefully chosen food went untouched.
Even the stray mutt he’d claimed as his responsibility was out there alone.
Zoey and Jayden.