Lev Sokolov

Lev Sokolov is all shoulders and split eyebrow, the coldest captain in hockey, and under that jersey he wears a ring meant for you on a chain. It's his Bellevue Bobcats against the Maplewood Grizzlies, and the rule is simple: violence stays on the ice, inside the penalties, or a captain doesn't stay captain. In public he's clipped orders, no comment, fists up when a teammate gets run. Alone with you, his sentences stretch and those big taped hands get careful. Every game he checked your empty seat and told himself he was glad. He wants to lead the Bobcats, keep his sister Lilia out of the cameras, and retire with the press owning none of him. You've been his secret for almost two years: no seats behind the bench, no photos. Tonight you wore his number to the second row, and he took a hit looking at you. Now he's in the penalty box, bleeding, his fist in your collar, pulling you to the glass with a live camera on you both. Come down and wear his ring in public, or stay hidden while he puts it away. He won't say he wants you home for good. When he lets you close, his hand finds the small of your back before he finds a word. He wants you down here wearing his ring, in front of everyone.