32. KAI
KAI
Back Where I Belong
We're running neutral-zone transition drills, three lines rotating through the center lane. Wyatt falls in beside me, his mouth guard dangling from his teeth.
He pops it out. "Jordan hates the C."
"He's doing fine."
"Didn't say he wasn't." Wyatt cuts hard on the turn. "He's actually annoyingly good at it."
I glance over.
"He handles the media. Gets on guys when they're fucking around. Nearly took Theo's head off after he showed up late to practice Tuesday." Wyatt grins. "Which, for the record, was entertaining as hell."
"Sounds like he's enjoying himself."
"That's the thing. He's not."
We circle back toward center ice.
Wyatt taps his stick against the ice. "Watch him next time someone calls him Captain."
I don't answer.
"He gets this look on his face like somebody just insulted his mother."
"Maybe he doesn't like the responsibility."
Wyatt snorts. "Jordan? The guy's been bossing everyone around since I've known him. He loves telling people what to do."
Fair point.
"It's not the job he hates," Wyatt continues. "It's why he has it."
Something in my chest tightens.
"After Columbus last week, he tore into us for ten straight minutes. Told Theo his defensive coverage was shit. Told me if I turned over the puck at the blue line one more time, he'd personally staple my ass to the bench."
"Sounds like Jordan."
"Yeah. Then everyone left, and I heard him talking to Coach. Told him they needed to reinstate you. Brennan said Hargrove would never go for it."
I don't say anything.
"So yeah. Jordan hates the C." Wyatt says it like he's just presented irrefutable evidence.
The drill rotation pulls us apart before I can respond.
Thirty seconds later, he's back, slightly out of breath.
"Jordan can do the job. He just acts like he's filling in for somebody who's running late."
My stride falters.
Wyatt keeps skating. "Team dinner Thursday? Jordan's at the center of the table, giving Theo shit, buying a round for everyone, making the rookies regret sitting within hearing distance."
"Sounds like Jordan."
"Exactly. Then Brennan asks him something about next week's schedule and calls him Captain." Wyatt glances over at me. "Whole fucking mood changes."
I say nothing.
"He answers him, but five minutes later, he's gone."
"Maybe he had somewhere to be."
"At nine-thirty? Jordan?" Wyatt snorts. "The man thinks last call is a personal challenge."
Fair point.
"He doesn't hate leading us," Wyatt says. "He hates being our captain."
Wyatt shrugs. "Jordan's a good guy. Best partner I've played with on the blue line. I'd go to war for him any day of the week. And the guys listen when he talks. But every time someone calls him Captain, he looks pissed."
"You've thought about this a lot."
"Had plenty of time while you were busy forgetting who the fuck we all were."
"Wyatt."
"See?" He grins. "That's captain energy. You just did it and you weren't even trying."
Brennan's whistle cuts across the ice.
Wyatt starts to peel away, then turns back.
"Take it or leave it, Cap. Jordan might be wearing your C, but I don't think he ever decided it belonged to him."
He pushes toward the far boards.
I start skating again, falling into the drill rotation, but his words stay with me.
Jordan is good enough to wear the C. That's almost worse.
Because if Wyatt's right, Jordan has spent weeks doing a job he never wanted in the first place.
And I'm done letting someone else carry what's mine.
I'm taking back my C.
I find Jordan in the tunnel before the team takes the ice for the next session.
He's leaning against the concrete wall with his helmet off, running a strip of tape between his fingers. His hair is damp, and when his eyes meet mine, one eyebrow lifts.
"What?"
"I'm going to ask you something straight."
"Sounds dangerous."
"Do you want the captaincy?"
That wipes the smirk off his face.
He studies me for a second. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's yours."
The answer comes so easily that I don't know what to do with it.
"You've been doing the job."
"Yeah."
"Running meetings. Talking to Brennan. Handling the media. Keeping the guys in line."
"Someone had to."
"You've done it well."
Jordan shrugs. "I know."
A laugh almost gets out of me. "Modest."
"Never claimed to be."
"Then why don't you want it?"
His expression shifts, some of the humor leaving it.
"Hargrove walked into the room and put the C on me." He winds the tape once around his fingers. "So I took it. Team needed a captain, and they weren't ready to reinstate you."
"And now?"
"And now they're fucking morons if they still aren't ready."
"It's not that simple."
"Seems pretty fucking simple to me."
I stare at him.
Jordan pushes away from the wall. "Look, I can run a meeting. I can yell at Wyatt when he does something stupid. I can smile for a camera and tell reporters we're taking it one game at a time until I die of fucking boredom."
"Sounds like you love the job."
"I love this team." His eyes hold mine. "That's different."
Something in my chest tightens.
He looks down at the C on his jersey, then back at me.
"I wasn't replacing you, Kai. I was covering for you."
"You don't think you could be captain?"
He gives me an incredulous look. "Of course I could. But I don't want your C." He pauses. "I want you to take it back."
"Why?"
"Because half these idiots would skate through a brick wall if you told them there was a puck on the other side." His mouth kicks up at one corner. "Me included."
The tape snaps between his fingers. He tosses it into the bin.
"So get your shit together and take it back. I'm getting tired of answering questions about line combinations."
I push off the wall, but Jordan calls after me.
"Donovan."
I turn.
His expression is serious now. "It never stopped being yours."
Then he follows me into the locker room.
The guys are scattered around their stalls, getting ready for the next session. Wyatt's retaping his stick. Theo's bent over his skates, tightening the laces. Easton's leaning back in his stall, scrolling through something on his phone, looking completely unhurried.
I stop in the center of the room.
The conversations taper gradually. Wyatt looks up first, then Theo. Easton puts his phone down.
"I'm going to say something, and I'm only going to say it once."
The room goes still. The hum of the overhead lights becomes audible.
"I've spent the last few weeks earning back a title that was mine before Hargrove decided to test whether I still deserved it. I've passed every test. Medical clearance. Conditioning. Private sessions. Film review. Every drill, every scrimmage, every evaluation they put in front of me."
“Tell them,” Wyatt shouts.
I give him a cutting look and he shuts his mouth.
“I'm done asking permission to lead men I'm already leading.”
Silence. Wyatt opens his mouth. Theo puts a hand on his shoulder without looking at him. Wyatt closes his mouth.
“Starting today, I'm your captain. If anyone has a problem with that, say it now."
Easton's lips pull up at one corner. "Took you long enough."
“About time,” Cole says.
“I had to beat him up to make him see the light,” Wyatt says.
Jordan walks to his stall and sits down. He picks at the stitching on his jersey until the C comes free in small pops of thread. He sets it on the bench between his stall and mine.
I pick it up. The fabric is warm.
Nobody says anything else about it.
On the next practice, the shift is immediate.
Brennan runs a full-team scrimmage, first and second lines rotating. On the opening faceoff, the center from the second line glances at me before dropping into position. I call the setup. He adjusts.
On the next line change, Wyatt checks over his shoulder, finds me on the bench, and waits for my signal before hopping the boards. It's a half-second look. Barely perceptible. But it happens on every single change after that.
Theo anchors the blue line. When I tap his shin guard twice during a stoppage, he shifts his gap control without asking why. Easton reads my hand signal at the top of the circle and relocates to the half-wall before the puck even drops.
Every faceoff, every positioning call, every adjustment flows through me, not because I demanded it but because the players in this building already knew where the current ran before I said a word.
Brennan watches from behind the glass. His arms are crossed. His whistle stays in his mouth, untouched, for the entire second half of the scrimmage.
After practice, I shower, eat lunch in the players' lounge, and review film on my tablet. The afternoon stretches out. I'm in the weight room when Brennan finds me.
"Walk with me."
I rack the bar and follow him down the corridor toward his office. He closes the door, leans against his desk, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
"I called Hargrove after this morning's skate."
I wait.
"I told him what I saw. Told him the team's already made their decision and the front office can either catch up or pretend they don't see it."
He drops his hand. "Hargrove agreed. Your captaincy has been reinstated officially, effective immediately."
My chest feels lighter, like the feeling of putting down a weight I'd been carrying so long my arms forgot they were holding it. My shoulders drop half an inch.
"Thank you, Coach."
"Don't thank me. You forced my hand." His mouth tightens. "And Kai?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't ever walk into that locker room and make a speech like that again without giving me a heads up."
"Understood."
But we both know I'd do it again if I had to. And he knows I know. His mouth flattens into something that might be irritation or might be respect, and he waves me out.
I drive home with the windows down, the warm air hitting my face as I let the weight of all the weeks of trying to regain what’s mine drain out.
At home, I pull up Ava's contact and call her.
"Hey." Her voice is soft.
"I got the captaincy back."
Silence. Then a sharp inhale. "Kai. Are you serious?"
"Brennan told me an hour ago. Hargrove signed off."
"What happened? Tell me everything."