For one shift, I trusted the room and the room held.
My phone buzzes.
Peyton: Ribs?
I look down at the message longer than necessary.
Ryan: Fine.
Three dots appear immediately.
Peyton: Try again.
I close my eyes once.
Ryan: Bad.
Peyton: Better. Ice them before pretending you are furniture.
Ryan: Furniture is reliable.
Peyton: Furniture also knows when to sit down.
I smile despite the ache.
Across the room, Evan sees it and shakes his head. “Hopeless.”
I look at the screen again, at the moment where my own restraint almost became trust.
“Maybe,” I say.
Maren passes me an ice pack on my way out and points at my ribs.
“Ten minutes. Not heroic minutes. Real ones.”
I take it without arguing.
That gets Colt’s attention.
“Growth,” Colt says.
I put the ice against my side. The room is not done with me yet, and for once, that does not feel like something to escape.
***
The arena does not forgive quietly.
The crowd cheered when the horn went. They chanted my name when Evan’s read turned into the goal that ended the series.
But there is a sharper edge underneath now.
Half support. Half judgment. Fifteen thousand people who have read the headlines and decided the captain owes them proof.
I gave them hockey.
That should be enough. It is not.
I stand before silence finds a place to rot.