Chapter 22 Roman #2
“Miss your boyfriend?” he chirps during the first faceoff. “Oh wait, he’s busy defending his wife’s honor. Must be nice having someone worth defending.”
I win the draw and skate away without answering, but my jaw’s tight enough to crack teeth.
Five minutes in, Dex scores on a beautiful wrister from the point. The crowd loses their minds and we’re up 3-2.
The lead lasts about ten seconds before Miami answers right back. 3-3.
The game’s wide open now—both teams throwing everything at the net, no one playing defense anymore, just desperation and exhaustion and sheer fucking will.
Martinez catches me with a hard hit along the boards. Nothing dirty, just physical, but my ribs are screaming from where he’s been targeting me all game.
“You look tired, Captain,” he says. “Maybe you should sit this one out.”
Seven minutes left and Rodriguez feeds me the puck in the neutral zone. I push it ahead, cross the blue line, cut toward the net with Martinez shadowing me.
I pass to Dex, he shoots, goalie saves but the rebound comes right back to me.
I don’t think. Just shoot.
It goes in.
4-3 with six minutes left and the arena erupts. My teammates mob me, the crowd’s deafening, and for about five seconds everything feels perfect.
Then I’m skating back to center ice and Martinez is right there waiting.
“Lucky shot,” he says.
“Scoreboard.”
His expression darkens. “Yeah? Enjoy it while it lasts.”
The way he says it makes my skin prickle, but the puck drops and we’re back at it.
Five minutes left. Four. Three.
Miami’s pressing hard, desperate for the tying goal, and we’re collapsing around our net blocking shots and trying to survive.
Martinez and I end up battling for the puck in the corner, bodies tight, sticks tangled, both fighting for position.
The puck squirts free and we both chase it.
I’m faster, get there first, already turning to move it up ice.
That’s when he hits me.
Not a hockey play. Not a check on the puck.
A deliberate, charging hit from behind that drives me headfirst into the boards, and the sound it makes is wrong—loud and sickening and final.
Then I’m on the ice and everything hurts.
My head’s ringing, my shoulder’s on fire, and I can’t breathe for a second, can’t think past the pain.
The whistle blows. Voices are yelling. Someone’s touching my back telling me not to move, but I’m already pushing myself up because staying down means it’s serious and it can’t be serious, not now.
I manage to sit up even though my head spins and blood’s dripping down my face from somewhere. My shoulder’s screaming but I can move it, which means it’s not separated.
That’s good. That has to be good.
“Five minute major!” the ref’s yelling. “Boarding! Game misconduct!”
Martinez is being escorted off the ice and he doesn’t even look sorry.
Then Marnie’s there, kneeling beside me, and her voice is professional and controlled but there’s something underneath it.
“Roman. What hurts?”
“Shoulder. Head. I’m fine.”
“Let me determine that.” Her hands are on my shoulder, gentle but thorough, and I flinch when she finds the worst spot. “Can you skate off or do we need the stretcher?”
“I can skate.”
“With help.” It’s not a question.
Rodriguez and Dex get me up, help me off the ice while the crowd claps and sticks tap against the boards, but I barely register any of it.
Just focused on getting to the tunnel without falling over.
In the exam room, Marnie’s all business—cleaning the cut above my eye, examining my shoulder with careful, methodical touches that still make me grit my teeth.
“Rotate for me,” she instructs, and I do even though it hurts like hell.
But it moves. Full range of motion.
“We need imaging to be sure, but I think you avoided a separation. Significant contusion. Deep bruising.” Her voice is tight, controlled in a way that tells me she’s barely holding it together. “You’ll be sore for weeks.”
“So I can go back out.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Marnie—”
“No.” She steps in front of me and her eyes are fierce. “You just got driven headfirst into the boards. You’re bleeding. Your shoulder’s already swelling. You’re done for tonight.”
“The game’s not over. We’re up by one with three minutes left—”
“I don’t care.”
“Well I do—”
“Roman.” Her voice cracks, just for a second, just enough for me to see past the professional mask. “You’re not going back out there.”
I look at her and realize she’s scared.
Trying to hide it behind clinical detachment, but I can see her hands shake slightly when she reaches for the ice pack, in the tightness around her eyes, in the way she won’t quite meet my gaze.
“I’m okay,” I say quietly.
“You’re not.” She presses the ice pack to my shoulder way harder than necessary. “You could have separated it. Could have broken your collarbone. Could have—” She stops and takes a deep breath. “You’re not going back.”
Through the walls we can hear the crowd roaring, the game still going, my team out there without me.
And Marnie’s looking at me like I might disappear if she takes her eyes off me for even a second.
“They’ll lose without me,” I say.
“They might.” She shakes her head. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps the ice pressed to my shoulder and won’t meet my eyes.
The crowd erupts. Final buzzer.
We won. 4-3.
Without me on the ice for the final three minutes, my team held on and won.
Marnie finally meets my eyes. “See? They didn’t need you to finish it.”
“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have been out there.”
“It means you can stop trying to be a martyr.” But her voice is softer now. Less angry, more relieved. “You’re okay. That’s what matters.”
The door bursts open and the team floods in—sweaty, exhausted, victorious. Rodriguez sees me on the table and grins.
“Cap! We did it!”
“Without me.”
“Yeah, well, we figured you’d done enough. Scoring the game winner and all.” He punches my good shoulder lightly. “Plus Marnie looked like she’d hunt us one-by-one if we let you back out there.”
Marnie doesn’t deny it.
The team celebrates around me and I sit there with ice on my shoulder, watching them, feeling the ache in my ribs and head and knowing Martinez got exactly what he wanted.
He got me off the ice. Made it personal. Made me lose focus.
And we won anyway, but all I can see is the look on Marnie’s face when she told me I wasn’t going back out.
Like losing me to a hockey game would matter in a way that had nothing to do with my job or her job or anything except us.
And that scares me more than any hit ever could.