Chapter 14
The defenseman tries to pull me into the wall after the puck is gone. I leave him holding the back of my jersey while I keep both hands on my stick.
Patrick already has the outlet. He takes two strides through the middle, moves the puck to Vincent, and keeps going while the home crowd rises into the kind of noise that makes every legal decision feel temporary.
I hold the wall until Vincent crosses the blue line. The defenseman behind me gives my jersey another twist, expecting me to turn, and his glove slides free when I push into open ice instead.
“Careful, D’Amico,” he calls after me. “Your daycare might see.”
The home bench laughs as I complete the change.
I step over the boards without looking toward them. My shift has produced a controlled exit, possession through the neutral zone, and no penalty. Those are the facts Gordon can use.
The words still follow me to the bench.
Patrick drops into the open space beside me, breathing hard from the rush. Vincent remains on the ice with the next part of the line, so nobody between us offers enough conversation to cover the home bench.
“Good leave,” Patrick says. He takes a drink, then keeps his eyes on the play.
“He didn’t have the puck.”
“I meant the jersey.”
“I know.”
The opposing defenseman skates past our bench during the change. He taps two fingers against the front of his helmet as though checking whether a camera can find his face.
“Smile, Mikey,” he says. “Tell the kids you used your words.”
I watch the puck instead.
The video has been removed from every channel the Breakers control. A correction names the nonprofit as independent. Laura’s deletion log records the copies they found and the copies they could not force another account to remove.
None of that puts the footage back inside the permission Diana never gave.
I approved my part because I thought attention could help. I let the word help do the work that permission was supposed to do. Diana named the choice, and I heard myself admitting it before I knew how to live with the sound.
We are still in a relationship according to every disclosure on file. We are not seeing each other privately. She has not called, and I have followed the space she asked for without turning obedience into another request for credit.
The opposing bench knows enough of the public story to find the exposed part.
A winger leans across the boards while his line waits for a stoppage. “Your girlfriend put you on a leash, or was that the little hockey school?”
Nicholas sits two places down from me. His head turns, but he keeps his mouthguard between his teeth and says nothing.
I do the same.
The puck comes high along our boards. Patrick reaches it first and chips it through pressure. An opponent finishes through his shoulder, hard enough to drive him against the glass but early enough that the puck is still near his blade.
The contact is legal.
My body moves before I decide what the movement means. One skate comes beneath me, ready to cross the space between the benches and the wall.
Then Patrick pushes away from the glass.
His head stays level. Both hands remain on his stick, and he turns immediately toward the route the puck has taken.
“You good?” I call.
“Fine.”
The answer reaches me before the opponent can turn the hit into anything else.
I stay above the play.
Patrick tracks through the middle. I take the weak-side lane, receive a return pass near the red line, and send the puck deep enough for our change. The player who hit him circles toward me after the whistle and puts one shoulder into my chest.
I keep my gloves on.
His second shove moves me half a step. The official skates between us before he can try a third.
“Nothing there,” the official says. “Go change.”
I go.
The crowd boos because restraint has become something they can recognize and dislike. The sound follows me down the bench while Gordon sends the next line over the boards.
Patrick sits beside me again. A red mark shows above the collar of his jersey where the glass caught him.
“I said I was fine,” he says.
“I heard you.”
“You looked.”
“Yes.”
He takes another drink. The bottle gives a soft crack when he squeezes it, then returns to its slot.
The exchange should settle me.
Instead, the home bench starts tapping sticks against the boards in a slow rhythm. One player calls my name. Another asks whether I need written permission before I hit back.
The joke spreads because the video gave them enough pieces. Children. Girlfriend. Permission. A professional fighter taught to become harmless by people who have never had to keep a roster job with another man’s fists near their face.
I understand what reacting would prove. They have selected the exact part of me they want to move, and every word is another hand pulling the same jersey.
Knowing that does not make staying still feel like control.
It feels like standing in front of an entire building while somebody explains that I no longer own the use of my body.
My next shift begins with a neutral-zone faceoff. Vincent wins the puck backward, and I cross above Patrick while our defenseman sends it toward the left wall.
The opposing winger closes from inside. I reach the lane first, put my stick between his blade and the puck, and use my hips against the boards without driving through him. He tries to lift my stick. I turn the pressure, keep the puck along the wall, and wait until Patrick comes underneath.
“Leave,” Patrick calls.
I let the puck travel behind my skates.
He collects it with speed. The winger holding me against the boards realizes too late that possession has moved somewhere he cannot reach.
I turn out after Patrick instead of finishing the contact. The opponent hooks one glove into my side as I leave.
“Good boy,” he says.
My stride breaks for less than a second.
The puck moves ahead. I recover the route and follow Patrick into the zone, where he sends a low shot through the defenseman’s feet. The goaltender directs it into the corner, and I arrive first.
The wall lane is narrow. I take it with my shoulder angled toward the glass, protect the puck on my forehand, and keep my stick available instead of pinning both hands into a battle I can win only by strength.
Vincent calls from behind the net.
I move the puck to him before the second defender closes. He carries it around the far side and finds Nicholas high in the slot. The shot changes direction off a skate and goes wide, but we keep possession until the home team has to ice the puck.
The whistle sends us toward the bench.
The winger who held me catches up near the red line. “She watching this one, or did she finally figure out you don’t learn?”
I stop skating for one stride.
He continues toward his bench without turning. He knows stopping is enough. The camera can find me standing there while everybody else completes the change.
Vincent reaches the door before I do. He waits until I step through, then puts one glove against the middle of my back to direct me toward the open seat rather than leaving me in the traffic.
“Do not give them the route,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“You stopped.”
“For a second.”
“That is the route.”
I sit. Vincent remains standing long enough for Patrick to move past us and take the next seat.
“They’ve been at him since warmups,” Patrick says.
“I know,” Vincent answers. “That does not make them good at it.”
Nicholas leans forward from the other side. “Their current material has the grace of a comment section.”
“It’s working,” I say.
Nicholas removes his mouthguard. The humor leaves his face before he answers.
“Then make them work harder.”
Gordon calls the line toward him during the television stoppage. He holds the board in one hand, but no diagram appears on it. His attention stays on the three of us.
“No retaliation,” he says. “We are not handing them penalties because they found words and shoulders.”
Patrick nods first. Vincent does the same.
Gordon looks at me. “Understood?”
“Yes.”
He points the marker toward the ice. “But they do not get to take liberties all night. Finish your routes. Support each other. Make sure they know there is a cost to going after our people.”
The old assignment fits inside the sentence without changing any of its words.
No retaliation.
Make sure there is a cost.
Gordon turns toward the assistant coach before I ask which instruction owns the space between them.
Vincent catches my arm with his glove before I move back down the bench. The contact is practical, high on the sleeve, and gone as soon as I stop.
“Protect the next shift,” he says. “Not the last hit.”
“I heard him.”
“You heard both parts.”
“So did you.”
“Yes.” Vincent’s gaze remains on mine. “That is why I’m telling you which one keeps us playing.”
The official signals the end of the stoppage. Gordon calls another line, and Vincent releases me to take his place at center.
No captain can stand beside me for every decision. He cannot close the distance between what Gordon said and what I heard. He can name it once, then leave me inside my own body while the game continues.
The next stretch becomes faster and less controlled. Both teams finish checks earlier in the route and later in the clock. Sticks remain near gloves after the puck moves. Every stoppage gathers enough bodies that the officials have to separate conversations before they become scrums.
I do the work.
I take a defensive-zone draw on the left side and tie up the opposing winger long enough for our defenseman to move the puck. I keep my stick inside on a controlled entry and force the carrier toward the boards. When he tries to cut under me, I turn and recover instead of reaching across his body.
Lucas sees one lane instead of two.
The shot reaches him cleanly. He directs it into the corner, and Patrick starts the exit.
The opponent following me says, “That your new job? Stand near people and behave?”
I keep moving.