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A s I’m escorted down the tunnel, I risk one glance up at section 109. Elliot is standing, her expression unreadable even from this distance. I raise a hand in what I hope conveys apology rather than triumph.

Then I’m in the locker room, adrenaline still coursing through my system, the full impact of what just happened beginning to sink in. I fought Jason Martinez. On home ice. During a crucial game. After Coach explicitly warned against exactly this scenario.

I’m still processing the potential consequences when the locker room door bangs open and Coach storms in, face thunderous.

“What part of ‘keep it clean’ was unclear to you?” he demands, voice deceptively quiet.

“He went after Elliot,” I explain, wincing as the medical staff examines my jaw. “Made disgusting gestures right in front of her.”

“I don’t care if he insulted your mother, grandmother, and every ancestor back to the Stone Age,” Coach retorts. “That was exactly what he wanted—to get you off the ice for the crucial minutes of the game.”

“I know,” I admit, the fire of righteousness cooling under his glare. “I screwed up.”

“Yes, you did.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Luckily for you, the team is holding the lead. But if we lose this game because our best defenseman couldn’t control his temper, we’re going to have a much longer conversation.”

I nod, accepting the rebuke. “It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Was it worth it, at least? The punch?”

I think of Jason’s smug face, of the disrespect directed at Elliot, of the satisfying feeling of my fist connecting with his jaw.

“Yeah,” I say honestly. “It was worth it.”

Coach shakes his head, but I swear I see the ghost of a smile before he leaves. “Ice that jaw. You look like hell.”

Left alone with the medical staff, I submit to their examinations and treatments. Nothing broken, thankfully—just bruising and a cut inside my cheek that explains the metallic taste in my mouth.

The sounds of the arena filter through to the locker room—crowd reactions, buzzer signals, the muffled voice of the announcer. I strain to follow the game’s progress, relief washing over me when a massive cheer signals what must be another Phoenix goal.

My phone buzzes from my locker—probably Tommy’s wife updating me on the game situation. But when I check it, the message is from Elliot.

That was both the stupidest and most chivalrous thing I’ve ever seen. Are you okay?

I smile despite the pain in my jaw.

Fine. My dignity is more bruised than my face. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.

You didn’t. Though I’m perfectly capable of fighting my own battles.

I know. Consider it a teamwork approach. You wear my jersey, I punch your ex. Division of labor.

Terrible division. I got the easier job.

I don’t know. That jersey is a pretty bold statement. Braver than any punch.

I meant what I said about reclaiming hockey on my terms. Your jersey seemed like an effective shortcut.

Most efficient editor I know, always finding the shortcuts.

We’ll talk after the game. Sarah says to tell you Miami looks “completely rattled” after your fight. Apparently they’re playing terribly now.

I grin at that, then wince as the movement pulls at my swollen lip.

Silver lining to my momentary insanity.

Meet me by the family exit when you’re done with team stuff.

Will do. Thanks for wearing the jersey.

Thanks for sending it. Now stop texting and ice that jaw.

I set the phone down, both dreading and anticipating the postgame conversation. On one hand, I lost control in a professional setting, something I rarely allow to happen. On the other hand, the look on Jason’s face when he realized I’d landed that first punch... that will stay with me for a long time.

The final buzzer sounds a few minutes later, followed by the distinctive eruption of a home crowd celebrating victory. The medical staff informs me we’ve won 4-1, shutting Miami down after my departure from the game. Small mercies.

My teammates file in, still riding the high of victory. A few slap me on the shoulder pads in passing, silent acknowledgment of what transpired. Tommy gives me a knowing nod.

“Miami played like shit after your fight,” he reports, dropping into the stall beside mine. “Completely off their game. Coach will never admit it, but your sacrifice play might have sealed the win.”

“Not exactly what I was thinking at the time,” I admit, pressing an ice pack to my jaw.

“Yeah, well, sometimes instinct trumps strategy.” He begins unlacing his skates. “That was quite a shot you landed. Jensen says Martinez is going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow.”

“Good,” I say with more satisfaction than is probably appropriate. “How’s Elliot? I got a text, but...”

“Handling it like a champ. Sarah says she didn’t even flinch during the fight, just stood there watching like she was taking mental notes.” Tommy grins. “She’s made of pretty stern stuff.”

“I know.” And I do know—it’s one of the things I admire most about her. The quiet resilience, the composed strength beneath her cautious exterior.

Coach’s postgame address is brief, focused on the win rather than my indiscretion. He mentions “maintaining composure regardless of provocation” with a pointed look in my direction but otherwise lets the matter drop. Two points in the standings tend to smooth over a multitude of sins.

Media obligations are mercifully brief—a few quotes about the game plan, nothing about the fight since I was ejected before the reporters could formulate their questions. I shower and change quickly, anxious to meet Elliot despite my uncertainty about her reaction.

The family exit is a smaller doorway near the administrative offices, designed to give players’ families a quieter departure option than the main arena exits. As I approach, I spot her immediately—still in my jersey, hair slightly mussed from what was no doubt an eventful evening, a small furrow between her brows as she checks her phone.