The shot went wide. Clanged off the post.
I didn't spiral. Old Pickle would've carried that post like a backpack for the rest of the period. New Pickle registered it—adjust next time—and skated back to the bench.
"Nice look," Hog said.
"Post said no."
"Post is stupid. You'll get the next one."
I believed him.
Second period, I fed Jake a cross-ice pass through traffic that had no business working. Too many bodies. Too small a window,but I'd seen the lane open before it existed—my brain ran the play two seconds ahead of real time.
Jake buried it. Top corner, bar down. The arena shook with cheers and stamping feet.
Jake found me in the celebration scrum, grabbing my helmet. "WHAT WAS THAT? How did you even see that?"
"I don't know. I just knew."
Third period. Up 3-1. Heath intercepted a bad bounce I hadn't even read yet, and he fed me a pass that hit my tape like he'd known exactly where I'd be. He shrugged when I looked at him.He just knew.
Maybe that's what I'd given him. Permission to trust his instincts.
The game-ending horn sounded. Storm 4, Wolves 2.
The bench emptied onto the ice. Someone grabbed me and spun me around. Someone else pounded my back hard enough to rattle fillings. The crowd stamped and roared, and the old boards of the arena groaned under the weight of Thunder Bay's joy.
I threw my head back and let the noise wash over me.
This was why I'd learned to skate before I could read. This feeling of being exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was built for. This was proof that I wasn't a disaster.
I looked toward the tunnel.
Adrian was there. Camera raised with the lens pointed at the celebration.
Something was wrong.
His posture was all tension—shoulders too high, spine rigid. He looked like a man filming his own execution.
The high drained out of me.
I showered fast. Changed faster. The celebration roared around me, but I was already somewhere else in my head.
Complications. Choices. Trust me.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
Adrian found me before I found him.
He stepped out of a doorway near the media room. He didn't have his camera. He had his hands shoved in his pockets.
"Can we talk?"
Three words that kicked off a thousand breakup scenes.
"Here?"
He glanced down the corridor. Equipment carts squeaked past. Someone laughed around the corner.
