Page 79 of The Off Limits Captain
“Trying.”
“Try harder.”
Chicago wants Houston out of me.
They are not getting it.
Not tonight.
Not with Peyton watching.
Not with twenty thousand people waiting to see whether restraint is just a cleaner word for weakness.
Zach buries a rebound midway through the first. Chicago ties it late on a deflection Volkov never sees.
The second period turns rougher.
Chicago clips Lex after a whistle, and two Stampede players go after the guy before I can get there. Lex waves me off from the ice.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“I am Russian.”
“That’s not medical clearance.”
“It is emotional clearance.”
I smile.
But Lex skates back to his net a half step slow, and his glove hand finds the post like he needs it to tell him where he is.
Trainer sees it too.
No whistle.
No signal.
So I leave him in.
You do not pull Lex Volkov for being slow after a hit he refuses to feel, not in a one-goal game. He would have to be visibly wrong, and Lex is never visibly anything.
Check on Lex after, I tell myself.
I mean it.
That is the captain’s trick. Promise yourself later and hope the game leaves you one.
On the next shift, Evan catches Chicago’s winger with his head down near the boards. The hit is legal, heavy, and loud enough to make the first rows stand. Chicago’s bench erupts. Evan coasts away like he has simply finished a shift.
The game tilts.
I feel it before the bench does.
Too much heat. Too many unfinished hits. The crowd wants escalation and the players can hear it calling.
“Short shifts,” I say down the bench. “Talk early. Sticks down.”
