Page 40 of Player Misconduct
“Well, I do,” she says, voice steady but sad. “And you should too. You worked too hard to get here. The Hawkeyes could suffer sanctions for this too. It’s not just about us.”
I could argue. I could tell her that what we had meant something, that maybe it was worth the risk.
But before I can, Slade shouts across the ice. “Mak! Let’s go!”
Kendall glances down the rink, relieved for the distraction.
“Wish me luck?” I ask, forcing a grin.
“Always.”
That one word fills me enough to tide me over... for now.
If I thought I was the only one feeling this, I'd let her go. But I know I'm not. That apology--that last kiss. She could have left without any of it but she didn't. She looked back before she walked out the door. I could feel the pause. She’s debating her decision. There’s hesitation. It's enough to prove that there's part of her that's curious about us. And that's all I need.
I don't need a sure thing. I just need a chance.
The puck drops and everything else fades.
This—this I can control.
I push off hard, feeling the blade slice through the ice. First line, first shift. Colorado’s fast, vicious in transition, and we’re fighting uphill the entire game. I take hits that rattle teeth, trade checks with their winger, grind through every second.
For twenty minutes, it’s just the game. The roar of the crowd, the sting in my lungs, the taste of adrenaline.
But every time my attention gets a break, my eyes find her near the home bench.
She’s all calm precision, tracking players, noting impacts, trading comments back and forth with Theo, ready if someone drops.
I tell myself not to look, but I can’t stop.
The second period starts with us down 2–1. I score on a rebound in the crease, evening the game. For a moment, I can breathe again. She cheers softly from the bench, not full-throated but enough that I catch it.
Then Colorado answers. And answers again.
By the end of the second, it’s 4–2.
The third period is a blur of sweat, hits, and desperation. I throw myself in front of pucks, dig for every rebound. It’s not enough.
When the horn sounds, it’s like the air is sucked out of the building.
4–2, final.
Colorado moves on.
We’re done-- out of the playoffs.
Our season is over.
The ache in my chest isn’t just from the loss, it’s from the weight of everything I couldn’t save.
The game.
Our playoff season.
Her.
The locker room is quieter than a funeral.
