My hands want a throat.
My job wants a win.
“Elbow to the head,” I say. “Intent.”
“He’s done.”
Five-minute major. Game misconduct.
Eighty-six argues all the way off.
Zach reaches me first, fury bright in his eyes. “Cap, we—”
“No.”
“He went for his head.”
“I know.”
Colt slams his stick against the ice. “That’s bullshit.”
“Yes.”
“Then let us answer.”
I turn on them. The bench. The blood-hot team I have built on the ice.
“We win the game. That’s the answer.”
Evan’s grin drops. “You really think they’ll learn from a scoreboard?”
“I think Finn does not need us in the box while he’s in the quiet room.”
That hits.
Kowalski looks away first. Colt swallows whatever he has been about to say.
Evan stares at me for another second, then taps his stick once against the boards. “Power play.”
I give him one nod.
Maren and Aris lift Finn onto the backboard. The crowd rises as they carry him toward the tunnel.
I watch until Finn disappears.
Then I put my skate over the line for the faceoff.
“Bury them,” I say.
They do not score on the major.
Chicago collapses low and clogs every lane. The building stays restless, hungry for a kind of justice I refuse to feed it.
Midway through the third, Roman tips Kowalski’s point shot through traffic for the lead.
With two minutes left in the third, Colt scores into the empty net.
Three-one.