Page 8 of Playing Her Game

“That's not what I asked.”

I shut off the water and grab my towel. “I'm fine.”

Back at my stall, Saint sprawls on the bench, still in his pads, looking far too relaxed for someone who just lost in overtime.

“So.” He grins. “Scale of one to ten, how's the hand?”

“Functional.”

“Kilovac's jaw?”

“Less functional.”

Jax snorts from across the room. “You know they're gonna fine you.”

“Worth it.”

“Was it, though?” Beau doesn't look up from unlacing his skates. “We still lost.”

The room goes quiet.

He's right. That's what makes it worse.

I fought Kilovac, and bonus, got a piece of Faulker. That's a win in my book. The reality, though? My book and the scorebook aren't the same.

And we still lost.

“Next time,” Hayes says finally, “we win first. Then you break his face.”

“Deal.”

Saint tosses a roll of tape at my head. “Emotional support?”

“Get fucked.”

“That's the spirit.”

The locker room has settled into the miserable routine of a postgame loss. Most of the guys have showered and changed into their dress clothes, suit jackets hanging from locker doors while they work on their ties or shove their feet into dress shoes. The ones still getting ready are moving like every second is another reminder of the game we let slip away.

I finish straightening my shirt cuffs and reach for my suit jacket as Coach Donovan walks into the locker room. His expression tells me everything I need to know before he opens his mouth.

“Everyone dressed and sitting,” he says. Not loud. Doesn’t need to be.

The room shifts. Guys who are still getting dressed pick up the pace. The low conversations die out. Within thirty seconds, we’re all on the benches facing him.

Coach Donovan stands with his arms crossed, assistant coach Marcus Bennett beside him, looking like he’s aged five years in the last two hours.

“We had that game.” Donovan’s voice is flat. “We controlled the first period. We had momentum going into the second. Then we decided discipline didn’t matter anymore.”

His eyes land on me. I hold his gaze.

“Kilovac got under your skin, Reznik. Congratulations. That’s exactly what he wanted, and you gave it to him.” He looks around the room. “And when one guy loses his head, the rest of you lose focus. Penalties pile up. Lines get disrupted. Rhythm disappears.”

“He took a cheap shot at Hayes,” I say.

“I know.” Donovan doesn’t blink. “And the refs would’ve handled it if you’d let them do their job.”

“Would they?” I mumble.