Chapter 41 41
Roman's POV
It was Saturday night, my first game since I fractured my knee. Coincidentally, we were playing against the same team that had gotten me my knee injury and cost me several weeks of inactivity.
I sat on the low wooden bench in the locker room, amidst my yelling teammates, tugging the thick mesh of my jersey down over my shoulder pads. The heavy weight of the jersey fabric usually brought a sense of calm, but my hands were clumsy as I tied my skates.
"Hey, are you ready?" Miles asked. He slid his helmet onto the top shelf of his locker, peering at me closely. I knew he thought I still wasn't fit to get back on the ice, and it annoyed me.
"I am ready," I muttered, leaning down to pull the laces tighter. The joint felt solid under the layers of compression tape, but the real test was waiting out on the frozen sheets.
Just then, the heavy metal door of the locker room banged open, and Coach Bailey walked in. A tall, Black woman with a tough build, Coach Bailey was stern, taking zero nonsense from any of us.
The room went quiet the second she walked in. Jesse and Carson stopped tossing a roll of grip tape between them, and Dex lowered his head to listen to her.
Coach Bailey crossed her arms, her dark eyes scanning each of us. "Alright, listen up. The N.U team is out there right now, and they think they are walking away with an easy win because we have been down a man. They think we are soft."
"Oh, we are far from soft, Coach," Miles spoke up from his corner, a grin on his face. "Roman and I have been hitting the ice at 5:00 AM everyday, all week. His knee is fine, and his shot is just as fast as it was back in September."
My heart did a fearful little flutter, and I instantly wanted to drop-kick Miles into the nearest trash can. Even though Coach Bailey had given me the green light to join the team again, she didn't know I had been training without permission, WAY before she had vetoed it. Was Miles trying to get me kicked out of the team?
Coach Bailey stopped speaking. Her eyes snapped from Miles directly to me, narrowing into a dangerous stare. The temperature in the locker room seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second. "Is that so?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
I cleared my throat, wishing I could undo the last thirty seconds. "Coach, it was just some light skating. Nothing too serious, I promise."
"Foster, get to my office. NOW!" She commanded, turning on her heel and marching out into the hallway.
Giving Miles a reproachful stare, I stood to my feet. I followed her out, leaving the rest of the team sitting in complete silence behind me. When I entered her small office, she slammed the door behind us and turned around to face me.
"Do you think the rules do not apply to you, Roman? What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded, jabbing a finger toward my chest. "I gave you an explicit order. I told you to stay off the ice until your knee was fully healed and cleared by the medical staff. Why did you go behind me to train—and without permission too?"
"I knew I was going to be cleared anyway, I wanted to prepare in advance for it," I argued. "I needed to know if the joint could handle the stress. I could not just walk into a game against Northwestern without testing it first."
"You went behind my back," she snapped. "You risked a permanent re-injury because you are too stubborn to wait for the official timeline. I should bench you right now, do you know that?"
Fear hit me heavily, twisting my stomach. The thought of sitting out this specific game made me take a step forward, looking her dead in the eye. "Please, Coach, don't do that. I'm fine, okay? Miles watched me the entire time, and I did not feel a single bit of pain. We need this win, and you know I give us the best chance to get it."
Coach Bailey stared at me for a long time, her expression completely blank as she weighed her options. She let out a long breath, shaking her head in frustration. "You are damn right we need you. You are our star player, Roman, and the only reason I am letting you put your skates on that ice today is because our offense is struggling without you."
I sighed in relief, and nodded in agreement.
"But do not think for one second that you are bigger than this team," she continued. "Your brother never went behind my back. Aaron held the single-season scoring record at this school because he respected the process and he respected my orders. It is up to you to uphold that family record today. Do not let his legacy down."
The mention of Aaron immediately deflated whatever joy I had felt. It was always about Aaron. Even with him gone, I was still living in his shadow, constantly being measured against a dead man's achievements. An unpleasant taste filled my mouth, and the excitement for the game soured.
"I am not Aaron," I muttered.
"Then go out there and prove you can match him," Coach Bailey replied, opening the door and pointing toward the ice. "Get to the tunnel, come on!"
I walked out of her office and joined the rest of the guys—Mile, Jesse, Carson, Dex, Paulie, and Hartley—as we lined up in the concrete tunnel. The muffled sound of the crowd was vibrating through the walls. It sounded as though the entire school had gathered to watch us play, and I was sure they had. News of my injury had traveled far.
"Sorry, man," Miles muttered next to me as we waited for the gate to open. "I didn't think she'd blow up like that."
"Just keep your mouth shut next time," I replied. Then I pulled my helmet down and snapping the chin strap into place.
The arena doors slid open, and the roar of the fans grew even louder. The bright lights reflected off the pristine white ice as we skated out onto the rink.
The loudspeaker crackled to life, and the commentator's voice echoed through the rafters. "Welcome back, hockey fans! Tonight, we have a massive matchup as the UIC Flames take on Northwestern University. And the big news tonight: Roman Foster is back on the ice after a brutal knee injury earlier this season!"
The University Of Illinois crowd cheered loudly, and I skated a quick lap, feeling the ice yield perfectly underneath my blades.
"The Flames are starting with their usual lineup," the commentator continued, his voice booming over the music. "We have Foster, Gallagher, and Vance on the front line, with Carter and Miller protecting the back, and Brooks guarding the net today for the UIC Flames. Hartley Stone will be benching. For Northwestern, Captain Brett Sullivan leads the charge, looking to extend their winning streak."
The referee blew his whistle, signaling for the captains to meet at the center circle for the ceremonial handshake. I skated over and stopped right at the red line.
Standing opposite me was Brett Sullivan. He was a broad-shouldered guy with a nasty expression, the exact player who had checked me into the boards and smashed my knee during our first game of the season. He glared at me, his eyes full of arrogance.
"Didn't think you'd make it back this season, Foster," Sullivan grunted as we stepped closer. "Hope that knee is ready to break again."
"Try it and see what happens." I whispered menacingly.
We reached out and shook hands. We gripped each other's fingers with immense force, neither of us willing to let go first. The memory of the pain and the weeks of grueling therapy flashing through my mind. I still had not forgiven him for trying to end my career, and I intended to make him pay for it by taking this win right out of his hands.
We finally broke the grip and stepped back to our respective sides of the red line. Jesse and Miles took their positions behind me, their sticks down and ready against the ice.
The referee moved into the center circle, holding the black rubber puck in his hand. He looked at both of us and made sure we were ready. I bent my knees and leaned forward, resting my stick on the ice. Every ounce of doubt disappeared, replaced by pure focus.
Then the referee released the puck, and the game began.