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By the last few minutes of the third, keeping my gloves on has become considerably less entertaining.

We’re still up by one. Schumer has caught me along the boards twice, and my shoulder is sore enough that I’m going to have to tell Theo exactly how much when I get off the ice. The next time he comes toward me, I move the puck before the contact arrives, but I still hit the boards harder than I’d like.

"Fuck."

I push off, get my stick down, and follow him toward the play. He says something as he passes. I don’t catch all of it, but I doubt he’s asking whether I need an ice pack.

Hunter gets the puck out, and I head for the bench on the change. Theo comes closer when I sit down.

"Shoulder?"

"Yeah. I’ll come see you afterward."

He nods, staying nearby while I watch the next shift. We have less than two minutes left, and their goalie is heading for the bench.

JP stops the first shot. The rebound goes to the boards, but they keep it in and send it across. He makes another save, and I lean forward with the rest of the guys, waiting for somebody to get the fucking puck out.

Luka finally does. His clearing attempt slides wide of the empty net, but they barely make it back into our zone before the horn.

I stand and follow the guys onto the ice, tapping JP’s pads before he comes out of the crease.

"Good saves."

"Thanks." He lifts his mask. "You finish with zero?"

"What the hell? Does everybody know?"

"Hunter told me."

"Of course he did."

The winger who’s been running his mouth all night skates past, catching my elbow with his as he goes.

"Getting soft, Ziggy."

I should let him keep going. I’ve managed it for sixty fucking minutes. Instead, I move my stick just enough to catch his skate.

He stumbles onto one knee, then scrambles upright and turns toward me.

"Watch your fucking stick."

"Watch where you’re going."

Slade catches up beside me, looking from him to my stick.

"Seriously? You couldn’t make it to the tunnel?"

"I made it through the game."

"Congratulations on the personal growth." Slade turns toward the winger. "Get lost, Schumer. You’re lucky Ziegler was feeling generous tonight. Usually, you’d need help getting off the fucking ice."

Schumer gives us both the middle finger before skating toward the tunnel, still running his mouth.

I look toward the officials. Nobody’s coming over. Slade shakes his head and skates away.

Then I look up at the stands.

Baylor is pointing at me. When she knows I’m looking, she points toward Schumer leaving the ice.