CHAPTER 8
BENNETT
The ice in Denver is notoriously fast. The altitude burns the lungs of anyone not used to it, and the opposing team plays a heavy, physical game designed to wear down defensemen.
I take a hit against the boards in the first period that rattles my teeth.
The opposing forward is six-foot-four and carrying a lot of momentum.
He pins me against the glass, his stick driving into my midsection.
I brace my right shoulder against the acrylic to absorb the impact, but the angle is wrong.
The joint screams, a sharp, white-hot flare of pain that travels all the way down to my elbow.
I shove him off, clear the puck out of the defensive zone, and immediately skate to the bench.
"You good, Cap?" Mac asks, tapping his heavy goalie stick against my shin pads as I drop onto the wooden bench.
"Fine," I say, keeping my breathing even.
I look up at the press box. It is suspended high above the ice, a row of tinted glass windows where the executives and media sit.
Maren is up there. I can't see her, but I know she is watching.
She is calculating every shift, analyzing the optics of my performance, and probably tracking exactly how many times I favor my left side.
The thought should annoy me. Instead, it acts as a strange kind of anchor.
We finish the game down by two goals. It isn't a blowout, but it is a solid, frustrating loss. The kind of loss that makes the locker room completely silent.
I sit in my stall, slowly unlacing my skates.
The adrenaline is fading, and the pain in my shoulder is settling into a deep, relentless throb.
I need to get to the medical room for an anti-inflammatory injection before we get on the bus to the airport, but I don't want to explain the bruising to the team doctor.
"Hayes."
Coach Miller is standing in the middle of the room. He is holding a clipboard, his expression grim.
"My office. Five minutes," he says.
He turns and walks out. The rest of the guys keep their heads down, pretending they didn't hear. When the coach calls the captain into his office after a road loss, it is never a conversation about strategy.
I finish taking off my gear, pull on my travel suit, and walk down the short hallway to the coaches' room.
Miller is sitting behind a metal desk, reviewing a stat sheet. He doesn't look up when I walk in.
"Close the door," he says.
I shut the door and stand in front of the desk.
"You were slow on the backcheck in the second period," Miller says, finally looking up. "You missed a clear assignment on their third goal, and you avoided contact in the corners during the third period."
"I got caught out of position on the third goal," I say evenly. "It won't happen again."
"Don't give me the PR answer, Bennett. I've been coaching you for five years." Miller drops the stat sheet onto the desk. "You are playing hurt."
I keep my expression blank. "I'm just tired, Coach. It's a long road trip."
"I got a call from Marcus Thorne during the second intermission," Miller says, leaning back in his chair. "He wants to know why my top defenseman looks like he's skating with a piano on his back. He told me to start monitoring your ice time. He wants you on the second pairing for the next game."
My jaw tightens. Moving to the second pairing isn't just a demotion. It is a signal to the rest of the league that the Kodiaks are losing faith in their captain. It is the first step toward a trade.
"I can play top minutes," I say.
"Can you?" Miller asks quietly. "Because if you are hiding an injury, and you cost us a playoff spot because you are too stubborn to sit out, I will bench you myself. I don't care what Thorne says. I care about the roster."
"I am fine."
Miller studies my face for a long moment. He knows I am lying, but he also knows he doesn't have the medical proof to force me out of the lineup.
"Second pairing on Thursday," Miller says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Get on the bus."
I walk out of the office, the anger burning hot and tight in my chest. Thorne is already making his move. He is using the loss tonight to justify diminishing my role, setting the stage to move me before the deadline.
I grab my duffel bag from my stall and head for the loading dock.
The air outside is freezing, a sharp Denver wind cutting through the thin fabric of my suit. The team buses are idling, the exhaust forming thick white clouds in the dark.
I walk toward the first bus, designated for players and coaching staff. The second bus is for front office and media.
I stop near the cargo bay, waiting for the equipment manager to load the last of the gear bags.
"Hayes."
I turn around. Maren is standing near the front of the second bus. She is wearing her heavy wool coat, the collar turned up against the wind. She walks over to me, her heels clicking against the concrete.
"I saw the hit in the first period," she says, stopping two feet away. "You favored your left side for the rest of the game."
"It's hockey. People get hit."
"Don't play dumb with me," she snaps, her voice low. She glances around to make sure none of the other players are within earshot. "I saw your shoulder in the hotel room. If you take another hit like that, you are going to need surgery."
"Then I'll get surgery when the season is over."
"You might not make it to the end of the season." She steps closer, the cold wind blowing a strand of dark hair across her face. "Thorne called the press box during the second intermission. He was talking to the broadcast team. He was feeding them a narrative about your ice time."
I look down at her. "I know. Coach Miller just bumped me to the second pairing."
Maren’s eyes widen slightly. She processes the information instantly, her analytical mind connecting the dots.
"He is devaluing you," she says, her voice turning cold. "He is creating a public record of your decline so he can justify trading you for a draft pick without looking like he is giving away the franchise player."
"I know how the business works, Maren."
"Then why are you letting him do it?" she demands, her frustration spilling over. "Go to the medical staff. Report the injury. If you are officially on the injured reserve list, he can't trade you. The league rules protect you."
"If I go on IR, I don't play. If I don't play, I don't get a new contract next year. And Grant Evans takes the full weight of Thorne's anger because I won't be on the ice to shield him." I shift my duffel bag to my left hand, the strap biting into my palm. "I am not sitting out."
"You are a self-sacrificing man," she says, the word laced with genuine anger. "You are going to let Marcus Thorne destroy your career because you think you have to save everyone else."
"I'm not trying to save everyone." I step closer to her, the distance between us vanishing. "I'm just trying to survive."
She looks up at me, the anger in her eyes warring with the same vulnerability I saw in the hotel room. She hates that she cares. She hates that my physical pain is affecting her ability to remain objective.
"Get on the bus, Bennett," she says quietly.
"Are you going to tell Thorne about the shoulder?" I ask.
"I told you I wouldn't." She buttons the top button of her coat, a defensive gesture. "But if you don't start defending yourself off the ice, I won't be able to protect you from the fallout."
She turns and walks toward the second bus.
I watch her climb the steps, her posture rigid. The doors hiss shut behind her.
I walk over to the players' bus and take my seat in the back. The engine rumbles, and the bus pulls out of the arena parking lot, heading for the airport.
I lean my head against the cold glass of the window, staring out at the passing streetlights.
Maren is right. Thorne is building a case against me. He is using the media, the coaching staff, and my own stubbornness to push me out of Portland.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the metal pen. I roll it between my fingers, feeling the smooth, cold surface.
I have spent my entire career absorbing hits. I have always believed that if I just stood my ground and took the punishment, I could protect the people behind me.
But as I sit in the dark bus, the pain in my shoulder radiating down my arm, I realize that taking the hit isn't going to work this time.
Marcus Thorne doesn't want to hit me. He wants to erase me.
The difference matters.
A hit leaves proof. Bruise, limp, penalty, witness. Erasure is cleaner. Erasure is a nameplate removed before the glue has cooled, a quote trimmed from a transcript, a player described as declining before anyone says discarded.
I look down the bus aisle. Men sleep with headphones on, mouths slightly open, knees pressed against seat backs. This is the part cameras never sell: grown men folded into bad seats, chasing points and contracts while their bodies negotiate with pain in private.
Maren would notice that. She would notice the socks drying on the vent, the rookie pretending not to cry after a bad game, the assistant coach rewriting lines with a coffee stain on his sleeve.
She would understand that a franchise is never just the men at the podium.
It is all the small, tired people asked to keep the machine handsome.
That is why Marcus is afraid of her.
Not because she can spin.
Because she can see structure.
And if I don't figure out a way to fight back, I am going to lose a lot more than just my spot on the first defensive pairing. I am going to lose the only woman who has ever bothered to look past the armor to see the damage underneath.
The bus hits a pothole, and half the guys curse in their sleep.
Maren does not stir at the front. Her head is tilted against the seat, laptop closed for once, one hand still resting on the strap of her bag like she expects disaster to try stealing it.
I should look away.
I do not.
A smarter man would understand that this is how damage starts: not with a kiss, not with a confession, but with the first time you want to be careful with someone else's exhaustion.