That is the choice.
Then Zach hits him.
Full speed.
No stick on the puck. No play to make. Just shoulder, weight, and everything the room has been holding back.
Forty-six’s helmet snaps against the glass.
The refs get between us too late.
Zach still has a fist in his jersey.
The crowd comes up roaring.
Peyton is behind the glass, notebook clutched in one hand, not writing.
I do not look at her again.
I know what she saw.
I get two.
Zach gets five and a game.
Houston scores on the extended power play.
Final: two-one.
The locker room after is silent in the way only preventable losses can make it. Tape rips. Skates hit rubber. No music.
Finn sits with an ice pack against his face and one eye swelling shut. Mild concussion. Cleared to travel. Furious about both.
I stop in front of him.
Finn looks up. “Is it settled?”
“Yeah.”
The kid’s shoulders loosen.
Nobody would put that in a box score.
Across the room, Evan leans back against his stall with his sweater half-off and his mouth set.
“You cost us two points,” he says.
The room freezes.
Zach’s head snaps up. “Careful.”
Evan does not look at Zach. “Am I wrong?”
I hold his gaze. The answer should be easy.
It is not.
“No,” I say.