Chapter 203: My Captain

The next morning, the mood at the practice facility was pure electricity. Game 2 was tomorrow night, and the tension in the locker room was thick enough to cut with a skate blade.

Devin had us running line-matching drills for two hours straight, forcing our unit to practice breaking through the Wolves’ aggressive, dirty neutral-zone traps. Reid played like a possessed man on my wing—taking every hard hit intended for me, clearing the crease with brutal efficiency, and placing pass after pass right onto my tape.

When practice wrapped, I sat on the bench, unstrapping my skates while sweat dripped off my chin. My lower back was tight, a low throb reminding me of my body’s limits, but it was manageable.

"Hey, Cap," Gerald called out, slapping his stick against the ice as he skated over to the boards. "Devin wants us doing media availability in ten minutes. You, me, and McCoy."

I looked up, giving a brief nod. "Got it. Give us five."

Reid was already by my stall, handing me a fresh, dry team polo before I even asked for it. His grey eyes briefly checked my face, searching for any sign of exhaustion.

"I’m fine," I murmured softly, stepping close enough so only he could hear. "Just a standard press conference."

"I’m standing right beside you," Reid said quietly, his voice an unshakeable anchor as he adjusted the collar of his own shirt. "Let’s go wrap this up."

Ten minutes later, we stepped into the crowded press room. Flashbulbs went off immediately, a wall of reporters leaning forward with voice recorders and microphones as we took our seats at the raised podium.

"Kain, over here!" a reporter from the Seattle Sports Network called out. "Game 1 was a physical bloodbath, especially in the third period. The Wolves’ defense was targeting you pretty heavily in the neutral zone. How are you feeling physically heading into Game 2 tomorrow?"

I adjusted the microphone in front of me, putting on my best, practiced Captain’s smile—cool, unflappable, and entirely in control.

"It’s the Stanley Cup Finals," I said, my voice steady and smooth. "If you aren’t taking hits, you aren’t playing hard enough. I feel great, the team feels great, and we’re ready to protect home ice tomorrow night."

Before the reporter could ask a follow-up, another journalist near the front stood up, holding a notepad.

"Question for Reid McCoy," the reporter said, turning toward Reid. "McCoy, there are rumors circulating that the Wolves are planning to tweak their physical game to go even harder after Evans tomorrow to throw off your top line’s rhythm. As the line’s enforcer, what’s your response to that strategy?"

Reid leaned forward toward his microphone. His expression didn’t change—it remained a wall of cold, stone-hard focus—but I felt the sudden, microscopic shift in his posture beside me.

"They can try," Reid said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register that quieted the entire room. "Anybody who tries to go through my Captain has to go through me first. And nobody is getting through."

A low murmur rippled through the media room at Reid’s words, the raw intensity in his voice leaving no room for follow-up questions on that front.

The reporters scribbled furiously on their pads, smelling a headline, but Reid didn’t budge—he just sat there, towering, cool, and resolute beside me.

I reached beneath the table, out of sight of the flashing camera lenses, and gave his thigh a quick, grounding squeeze. I could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles gradually relax under my palm, his grey eyes cutting sideways to catch mine for a fraction of a second.

"That’s all the time we have for today, folks," the team’s PR manager announced, stepping in smoothly to cut off the next wave of shouted questions. "Thanks, everyone."

We stood up in unison, stepping down off the elevated podium and heading through the side exit into the quiet hallway leading back to the locker room. The double doors clicked shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the media circus instantly.

"My Captain, huh?" I murmured, a faint, amused smirk tugging at the corner of my lips as we walked shoulder-to-shoulder down the quiet corridor.

Reid didn’t blush this time. He just reached out, his large hand briefly catching my wrist, his thumb pressing warm and possessive against my pulse point before letting go as we turned the corner toward the athletic trainer’s room.

"You’re my Captain," Reid said simply, his low voice carrying that quiet, absolute certainty that always managed to settle the storm in my head. "On and off the ice."

I swallowed against the sudden, tight warmth in my chest. "Game 2 tomorrow, McCoy. We need this win."

"We’re taking it," Reid replied, his eyes dark with unshakeable focus. "Now go get your back taped, Cap. We’ve got a Cup to bring home."

We kept riding on the energy towards the game and because we only had Game 1 of the finals a few days ago, we didn’t do another drug test. Thanks to that, I didn’t have to go down that anxiety lane this time too.

And so, before we knew it, it was game night.

The roar of the home crowd was a deafening, physical force, vibrating through the concrete floor of the tunnel and right up into my skates. The air smelled of sharp ice, cold sweat, and the electric ozone of game night.

I stood at the head of the tunnel, my lungs drawing in deep, steadying breaths over and over. Beneath my thick pads and compression gear, my hands were shaking.

I clenched them into tight fists inside my heavy gloves, brushing the tremor off as pure, raw adrenaline. I refused to let my mind drift back to blood work, medical registries, or the silent, growing secret resting against my spine.

I wasn’t ready to leave this ice. Not yet. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready but for tonight, I will focus on the gsme in front of me.

If the Wolves were coming out to target me, if they thought they could use physical intimidation to break our top line, then I was going to make them chase a ghost and throw them completely off their game.

A heavy, warm hand suddenly squeezed down hard on my shoulder, anchoring me right as the sensory overload threatened to make my head spin.

I looked up, pulling my helmet down over my head and locking eyes with Reid through my visor. His grey eyes were fierce, dark, and utterly steady—a towering pillar of quiet strength behind me. He gave my shoulder one last, firm squeeze before stepping into line on my right wing.

I turned back toward the dark hallway leading out to the glowing ice, my chin lifting as the familiar, unyielding armor of Captain Evans settled over me.

"Ready, team?" I barked, my voice echoing hard and clear over the thunder of the arena.

Behind us, a violent, rhythmic chorus erupted as the team began slamming and tapping their sticks against the rubber floor. Miller roared from behind his goalie mask, Russo barked orders to the defense, and Gerald let out a wild, battle-ready yell.

"Let’s go show those Wolves what we’ve got!" I shouted, stepping out into the blinding arena lights as twenty thousand fans exploded into a deafening cheer.

We flooded onto the ice, the freezing spray hitting my face like a jolt of pure voltage.

I took two fast, hard laps around our half of the rink, testing the edge of my blades, forcing my legs to absorb the rhythm. My lower back was tight, but as the puck dropped for the opening faceoff and the center ice spotlight locked onto us, the pain faded into the background noise of the war.

The Wolves’ captain, a massive, dirty-playing Alpha named Pedro, lined up across from me at center ice. He sneered through his cage, his eyes dropping intentionally down toward my stomach before flashing back up to my face.

"Word is you’re soft tonight, Evans," Pedro growled low, trying to bleed his heavy, bitter pheromones across the red line to unseat me. "Let’s see how many hits that body can take before you crumble."

Before I could even open my mouth, Reid glided up right beside my shoulder. His broad, towering frame completely blocked Pedro’s view, his pine scent flaring thick and dangerous, instantly smothering Pedro’s aggressive odor.

"Talk all you want, Pedro," Reid said smoothly, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register as he gripped his stick. "You won’t even get close enough to touch him."

The referee blew the whistle, dropped the puck, and Game 2 officially began.

I reacted on instinct, dropping my shoulder low as the black rubber hit the ice. My stick blade swept in, snapping the puck back toward Russo before Pedro could even get his stick down.

"Go!" I barked, cutting hard across the red line.

The ice flew from beneath my blades as I accelerated into the neutral zone, feeling weightless for the first time all day. The tension, the fear, the cold sweat from earlier—it all vanished, burned away by the familiar, high-voltage rush of the game.