Third period, with six minutes left, Hog wound up from the blue line again. Their goalie cheated high. I'd been watching him all game, knew his patterns, and knew he dropped to his knees too early on rebounds.
The shot came. Their goalie made the save, but the rebound dropped clean to my tape. I buried it bar-down before anyone else registered it was there.
The crowd was on fire. Jake was already over the boards. "That's my fucking rookie!"
"Not a rookie anymore," I said, grinning.
"You'll always be my rookie."
That night, lying in bed, I pressed my fingers against the bruise blooming across my ribs. Purple-black, tender. Proof I'd put my body where it needed to be.
Wednesday: The footage thing spread through the rumor mill. Fragments in the equipment room, and half a conversation at the bagel place.
Adrian sent three texts with subject lines like "Update" and "Progress." I didn't read them. Whatever was happening with lawyers and networks, it was happening. My job was to show up and play hockey. That was its own kind of relief.
Thursday: Team dinner at Evan and Jake's place. Jake made something involving pasta, forty cloves of garlic, and a structural integrity problem. "It's deconstructed," Jake said when the lasagna collapsed.
"It's soup," Evan said.
"Deconstructed lasagna soup."
I ate three bowls. Afterward, Hog sat next to me on the couch, knitting. The needles clicked in a steady rhythm. We sat in comfortable silence. He said, without looking up, "You've been solid this week."
"Thanks."
"Means something." He finished a row and turned the piece over. "You're still showing up. For you. Not for anybody else."
I swallowed hard. "Yeah."
"You know what the hardest thing about hockey is?" Hog asked.
"What?"
"Showing up when nobody's watching. When there's no crowd, no cameras, and no one keeping score." He glanced at me. "That's when you find out who you really are."
"And who am I?"
"Someone who shows up." He went back to his knitting. "That's not nothing, Pickle."
His hand landed on top of my head—heavy, brief, like I was a slightly less well-behaved version of Biscuit. Then he went back to knitting as if nothing had happened.
Friday: I stayed late after practice to skate. Fresh ice, just me and the sound of my edges carving the surface. Coach wandered out and leaned against the boards.
After two minutes: "You look different."
"Different how?"
"Focused." He sipped his coffee. "You're moving with purpose now. Keep it up."
He walked away before I could ask what it was.
Saturday: I cleaned my apartment. The real kind of cleaning.
At the bottom of the junk drawer, I found a receipt from my first date with Adrian at the Thai restaurant. Proof that we'd been a thing. Evidence.
I put the receipt back and closed the drawer.
Sunday: I woke up and realized the week had passed without drama. I'd just lived it.
