Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 21 - Chapitre 29

The locker room door slammed hard enough to rattle the nameplates.“Sit down.”No one did.Rain hammered against the stadium windows, turning the night outside into a smear of silver. Inside, the air tasted like sweat, metal, and something sharper than fear. Forty-seven minutes ago, we’d blown a twelve-point lead in the fourth quarter. Now the owner of the Chicago Kings stood in our sanctuary like he owned our oxygen.Which he did.Victor Hale didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His gray suit looked untouched by the storm, his silver hair perfectly in place. The only thing human about him was the vein ticking near his temple.“You embarrassed me,” he said calmly.Across from me, Damon Vale leaned back against his locker like this was nothing more than halftime. Like the loss hadn’t ripped the season wide open. Like he didn’t care.He cared. That was the problem.“We lost one game,” Damon replied. His voice was low, steady. Provocative. “The season’s not over.”Victor’s gaze shi

The door bursts open before Coach can finish the play.We all look up, annoyed until we see who it is.Not a trainer. Not security.Victor Hale.The owner never comes into the locker room during playoffs.Never.His expression is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that means something is already broken.“We need a minute,” he says.Coach stiffens. “We’re down by one. The second period starts at four.”Victor doesn’t glance at the whiteboard. He looks at Damon.Only Damon.My stomach drops.The room goes quiet except for the low hum of the ventilation and the distant roar of the crowd waiting for us to return. Game Five of the conference finals. The series tied 2-2. Win tonight, and we’re one step from the championship.We’ve bled for this.Damon rises slowly from the bench. Sweat darkens the collar of his jersey. There’s a bruise forming under his left eye from the hit he took earlier, but he looks steady. Focused.Like he’s about to go back out there and change the game.“What’s wrong?

Don’t sign it.”Damon’s voice cuts across the conference table just as the pen touches paper.Every head in the room snaps toward him.Victor Hale doesn’t look up. “This meeting doesn’t concern you anymore.”“It concerns him,” Damon says, stepping fully into the glass-walled boardroom. “And he hasn’t signed yet.”My hand freezes.The contract in front of me is thick. Final. A revised extension that locks me into the Kings for five more years. After last week’s press conference stunt, this was the compromise public reconciliation, private control.Sign, and the investigation talk “goes away.”Refuse, and I’m benched indefinitely for “conduct detrimental.”Simple.Clean.Calculated.Victor finally lifts his gaze. “Security let you in?”“I didn’t ask security.”Damon looks different in a suit. Sharper. Harder. Boston blue traded for charcoal gray. But his eyes are the same steady, storm-dark, fixed on me.My goal is simple.Protect my career.Keep playing.Keep fighting from inside.But

Empty net!”The shout tears through the noise just as the puck slides onto my stick.Their goalie is sprinting to the bench.Six attackers are coming.Thirty-two seconds left.We’re up by one.I cross center ice and see it the wide, open goal at the far end of the rink. No goalie. No defender was close enough to stop me.If I shoot now, it’s over.Championship sealed.Legacy cemented.The commentators have been saying it all week. If I win this Cup, with this roster, after this season, the debate ends.Greatest of all time.The shot that defines everything.The arena is on its feet.My skates carve over the blue line. The puck feels light on my blade, almost weightless. Like it knows what it’s about to become.A goal.A headline.A statue one day, maybe.Behind me, I hear Damon’s stride.Fast. Controlled. Close.He’s open to my left.He doesn’t call for it.He doesn’t need to.Three years ago, we were drafted into the same franchise and told we’d never work together.Too competitive.

“Are you two together?” The question slices through the press room like a blade. No one laughs. No one pretends they didn’t hear it. Every camera zooms in. I feel Damon is still beside me. Flashes burst, white and blinding. The Kings logo looms behind us on the backdrop, repeated over and over like a reminder of what’s at stake. We just signed identical five-year extensions. Same day. Same numbers. Same clause structure. The media already called it unprecedented. Now they want something else. A headline bigger than hockey. I adjust the mic in front of me. It screeches softly. My goal today was simple. Shut down trade rumors. Reassure sponsors. Talk about leadership, culture, championships. Not this. Damon leans back in his chair, jaw tight but controlled. He’s better at hiding nerves than I am. Always has been. But I know him. I see the pulse ticking in his throat. The reporter doesn’t back down. “You live in the same building. You vacationed together during the