Chapter 9 Garrett #2
Kowalski's voice sharpens. "I won't let personal drama poison this locker room. You risk your job, you risk the team's future. Make your choices."
The meeting ends. The chairs scrape. Players rise. Tension stretches over everything like a pulled muscle.
I catch a glimpse of Vivian up front—stone-faced, arms folded, not even pretending to hide her disdain.
She’s not looking at Kowalski, she’s staring at a fixed point on the far wall, her expression a mask of cold, familiar fury.
When her eyes briefly meet Sloane's across the room, there’s no professional solidarity, only a look that says, See?
This is what they do. This is how they burn it all down.
My first instinct, sharp and absolute, is to find Sloane.
I navigate the tense crowd, shouldering past a couple of rookies who are whispering nervously. I see her up ahead, talking with a colleague from her department, her expression carefully neutral, but the stiffness in her shoulders gives her away.
“Sloane,” I say, my voice lower than I intended.
She turns, her eyes meeting mine. And I know before she speaks—she’s already armoring up.
Her colleague ducks away. We’re left standing in the chaotic hallway, a bubble of intense silence around us.
“Well,” she says, her voice crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the warmth from last night. “That was… unambiguous.”
“Are you okay?” The question feels stupid and inadequate.
“I'm fine, Sullivan.” She uses my last name like a shield, her gaze flicking over my shoulder as if to remind me we're being watched. “I have a proposal to finish for Northstar. That's my focus.”
Then she turns—cool, professional, closed.
I watch her go, pulse surging with something that isn’t quite panic but damn close.
Then I see it.
A reporter, cutting her off by the media tunnel. Not one of the good ones. He’s all angles and elbows, recorder in her face, his questions slick with implication about team chemistry.
The possessive heat surges through me—move. Intervene. End it.
But I freeze. Because I want to see what she does.
And she doesn’t even flinch. She just offers a cool, professional smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
"Mark," she says, her voice calm and even. "I've already provided the team's official statement on our playoff readiness. Is there a specific part of 'we are confident in our roster' that you're struggling to understand?"
The reporter’s smug expression falters. He starts to stammer, but she gives him a single, dismissive nod and turns away, leaving him fumbling with his recorder.
A memory flashes—Emma, crying and screaming at a blogger in a hotel lobby, making it all about her. The contrast is a physical jolt.
Sloane runs her own plays.
She disappears down the hall, and the low-grade panic simmering in my gut solidifies into something else. Something hard and clear. Kowalski's mandate. The whispers. The wall she just put up. They aren’t just obstacles.
They’re threats.
And I’m done playing defense.
The locker room feels different tonight because I'm different. The familiar rhythm of preparation—shoulder pads, shin guards, the methodical choreography of getting ready for war—but there's a new edge to it. A purpose that wasn't there before.
"Tank." Easton's voice cuts through my focus. He's lacing his skates two stalls down. "You good?"
"Better than good." The response surprises us both. He raises an eyebrow but doesn't push.
I tape my stick with deliberate precision, each wrap of black tape a promise. Kowalski's voice echoes in my head—Make your choices—and I have. The mandate was meant to scare me into submission, to make me back down and play it safe.
Instead, it's gasoline on a fire I didn't even know I was carrying.
The tunnel stretches ahead, and I'm aware of every detail with hyper-focused clarity. The ring of skates against concrete. The low murmur of preparation. The weight of the moment pressing down like atmospheric pressure before a storm.
I catch a glimpse of the press box as we emerge—auburn hair catching arena lights—and instead of pushing it away, I let it sharpen me. She's up there. Watching. And I'm about to show her exactly what happens when someone threatens what's mine.
The anthem plays. Twenty thousand people on their feet. The energy builds, and I channel it into something cold and controlled and absolutely lethal.
The puck drops.
And I go hunting.
Seventeen minutes in, Chicago's Torres builds speed on the forecheck, lining up our rookie Daniels behind the net. I see it developing—predatory veteran looking to make a statement on fresh meat.
Not today.
Every cell in my body recognizes this moment. This is exactly what I told myself in that hallway: I'm done playing defense. Torres represents everything—every threat, every ultimatum, every spineless bureaucrat who thinks they can dictate the terms of my life.
I angle my approach with fifteen years of controlled violence. Torres commits to his hit—too high, too late—and I arrive at the perfect moment with all the fury I've been storing since Kowalski opened his mouth.
The collision is devastating. Legal, but barely. Torres hits the ice hard, sliding into the boards with a look of genuine shock. The crowd explodes, but I'm not done. I stand over him for a beat—just long enough to make sure he understands the message—before skating away.
Touch my guys, and I'll end you.
"Beautiful hit, Tank!" someone yells from the bench.
Damn right it was. And it felt better than any hit I've thrown all season.
I'm locked in now, but not the way I usually am. This isn't the zen-like calm of pure hockey instinct. This is sharper. Meaner. Every play is personal because I've made it personal. Kowalski wanted to back me into a corner? Fine. But cornered animals are the most dangerous.
Second period, Chicago power play. They're moving the puck with crisp precision, looking for the seam that will crack our defense. I'm seeing everything three moves ahead—not because I'm calm, but because the anger has burned away everything except clarity of purpose.
You want to threaten my career? My choices? Try it.
I anticipate their cycle before they execute it. Position myself not where the puck is, but where it's going to be. When their point man thinks he's found the perfect passing lane, I'm already there, stick blade angled to deflect the puck into neutral territory.
The interception springs our counter-attack. Clean breakout, odd-man rush, goal.
This is what playing offense looks like. Not waiting for the hit to come. Taking control. Dictating terms.
"That's why you're the alternate, Tank!" Coach yells as I skate past the bench.
He has no idea. I wear the 'A' because when it matters—when someone I care about is threatened—I don't back down. I don't play safe. I go through whatever's in my way.
Third period. Game tied 2-2. Four minutes left.
Chicago pulls their goalie, flooding our zone with six attackers.
The pace ratchets up to playoff intensity, and I feel it in my bones—this is my moment.
This is where I prove that Kowalski's mandate means nothing.
That I'm not backing down. That I'll take every hit they throw and still be standing.
Their point man winds up for a slap shot through traffic. I read the trajectory instantly, and there's no hesitation. No calculation of risk versus reward. There's only the pure, distilled truth that's been burning in my chest since that meeting:
I protect what's mine.
I drop into the shooting lane as the puck rockets off his stick. Ninety-five miles per hour of vulcanized rubber catches me square in the ribs, finding the gap between shoulder pad and elbow guard. The pain is white-hot, explosive, driving the air from my lungs.
And it feels like victory.
This is what it means to play offense. To step into the fire instead of avoiding it. To choose the pain because the alternative—backing down, playing it safe, letting fear dictate my choices—is worse than any physical punishment.
I hit the ice hard, gasping, seeing stars. My ribs scream in protest, but I'm already pushing myself back up because that's what you do when you've decided to stop being afraid.
"You okay, Tank?" Easton calls from the crease.
I give him a thumbs up, though my ribs might be cracked. It doesn't matter. This is the price of refusing to back down. And I'll pay it every single time.
Two minutes later, riding the adrenaline of earned pain and absolute clarity, I thread a perfect pass through three defenders to spring Cassidy on a breakaway. He buries it top shelf, and the arena explodes.
Game over. 3-2 Mammoths.
The horn blares, and the arena erupts in a deafening roar. The team swarms at center ice, a chaotic symphony of triumph, but I'm barely aware of it.
My eyes are already searching the edge of the ice, the mouth of the tunnel.
And then I find her.
She's standing just inside the corridor, tablet forgotten at her side. Her professional mask is gone, replaced by a smile so bright and full of undisguised pride that it hits me harder than the blocked shot. Our eyes lock across the chaos.
In that single, silent moment, everything crystallizes.
She sees what I just did. She understands what it means.
I didn't just win a hockey game. I proved that I'm done playing by their rules. That I'll take the hit, make the play, and damn the consequences.
The scoreboard says the Mammoths won.
But that look on her face—fierce and proud and completely unguarded—that's the only victory that matters. That's what I went to war for.
And I'd do it again. Every single time.