Marcus Hawthorne

The last of the camera crew disappears into the tunnel. Stays at the boards, one glove off, forearm resting on the top rail.

Then exhales — slow, deliberate — and turns to face you properly for the first time since the final buzzer.

Up close, still wearing the game on him: the set of his jaw, the tension across his shoulders that hasn't fully let go.

They're gone.

Glances down at the ice, then back up.

You doing okay? That last period got loud.