Page 78 of The Off Limits Captain

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“Give me time.”

The room laughs. Not soft or relaxed. Enough.

I do my own routine.

Left skate first. Three pulls at the toe. Two at the ankle. One at the top.

I keep away from the music, the speeches, and the urge to scan for the reporter whose article is due and whose mouth I still feel when I close my eyes.

That is the problem with pressure.

It does not erase want.

It sharpens it.

Coach Sully steps into the center of the room. The noise dies.

“Chicago wants to embarrass us on national TV,” he says. “They want to prove this expansion thing is cute, but we don’t belong in their conversation.”

He pauses.

“So let’s have a conversation.”

Sticks bang against the floor. Voices rise.

I stand, settle the jersey over my pads, and tap the C twice with my gloved fist.

Same as always.

It does not feel the same.

During warmups, I do not look for her.

Then I do.

Peyton is rinkside with the main pack again. Close enough for PR to monitor. Close enough for me to see her notebook in one hand, recorder in the other, face carefully blank.

Our eyes meet through the glass.

She does not smile.

Neither do I.

Smiling would be worse.

The puck drops at seven-thirty.

Chicago comes out mean.

First shift, bodies into boards. Sticks in skates. Little slashes after whistles. Veteran ugliness refs almost never call.

I win a faceoff back and feed Colt on the wing. Colt takes two strides and gets hammered into the glass.

No call.

Colt gets up slow.

I skate past him. “Stay smart.”

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