***
First shift, I flew.
The puck dropped, and my legs remembered what they were for—fast breaks and sharp cuts.I won a board battle against a guy who had thirty pounds on me. Next, I threaded a passthrough two defenders. I got back on the back check so fast that I surprised Evan.
The crowd was loud, the kind of noise that got into your blood and made everything feel possible. Storm jerseys everywhere, a sea of blue and white, and somewhere in the building, Adrian was filming, but I wasn't thinking about that.
I was thinking about hockey. Only hockey. The puck and the ice and the next shift and nothing else.
In the third period, I noticed Heath.
He was on the bench three spots down, helmet on, mouthguard clamped between his teeth like he was trying to bite through it. Too stiff, I thought.
His shoulders were practically at his ears. Every muscle locked. The posture of a guy who was so terrified of making a mistake that he'd forgotten how to move.
I knew that posture. I'd worn it myself, back when the Storm felt like someone else's team and I was only borrowing a jersey until they figured out I didn't belong.
Coach called the line change. Heath stood like he was walking to his own execution.
"Breathe," I said as he passed.
He didn't hear me. Or if he did, he couldn't process it. He was already climbing over the boards, already on the ice, already somewhere inside his own head where my voice couldn't reach.
The play developed fast.
Their center carried the puck through the neutral zone—smooth stride and good hands. Heath was supposed to cover the weak side, watching the winger, and staying between his man and the net.
Instead, he watched the puck.
The center's head came up. He looked at Heath and found the gap. Found the opportunity.
The pass went wide.
Heath turned to follow it.
The winger—two hundred and ten pounds of welcome-to-the-league—lined him up from the blind side.
The hit was massive.
The sound was worse. That crack of body on body, with a grunt of air leaving the lungs. Then, the clatter of equipment against the ice. Heath went down like someone had cut his strings. Folded. His stick flew one direction, his helmet another, and for one horrible second, he didn't move.
The crowd hushed.
I stared.
Get up. Come on, kid. Get up.
Heath got up.
Slowly. Shakily. One knee first, then the other, and then standing with the careful movements of someone checking whether all their pieces were still attached. His face was pale, and his hands were shaking as he retrieved his stick.
The whistle had blown. Play stopped. The ref was saying something about icing.
Heath skated back to the bench.
He moved like a person trying very hard to look like nothing was wrong, which meant everything was wrong. His eyes were too wide. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. He dropped onto the bench and stared at the ice.
I was already deciding where I'd sit. I dropped onto the bench beside him without asking.
