“Make you brave enough to see yourself.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
Hog was quiet. The bus hummed. For a second, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Because I spent years waiting for someone to tell me I could be soft and still be strong.” His voice was low, meant just for me. “Rhett was the first person who loved both and didn’t ask me to pick one or the other.”
The dark pressed against the windows. Mile 156. Mile 157.
“I keep thinking it’s him, Adrian,” I said. “He’s the reason I’m playing better. What if I’m only that good when someone’s watching who believes in me?”
Hog put his massive hand on my shoulder—heavy and warm. “I think you were always capable of this. You just couldn’t stop fighting yourself.” He squeezed once. “Adrian’s showing you it’s possible. He doesn’t give you anything you don’t already have—in talent. It’s yours. Nobody can take that from you. Not even if he leaves.”
Not even if he leaves.
A week ago, those words would have sent me spiraling. Now, they just felt true.
“Thanks, Hog.”
“For what?”
“The whole thing. You’re like a giant bearded fortune cookie.”
He snorted. “Don’t make this weird.”
“Too late. You know me—weird.”
He stood, paused in the aisle. “Get some sleep. You’ve got two more games to claim.”
Fort Wayne. Third game.
Heath was playing apologetic hockey, and it nearly killed me. I’d noticed it in warm-ups—he second-guessed every stride and skated like he was asking the ice for permission. His shoulders crept toward his ears.
I knew that posture. I’d lived in it for two years.
Second period. We were up 2-1. Heath’s line went out. The play developed in our zone. Fort Wayne’s center carried the puck behind our net. Heath positioned himself correctly, but his weight was wrong. Too far back on his heels. Ready to react instead of act. And then something happened. He moved.
Not hesitant. Instinct—pure, unfiltered. He read the play a full second before the puck arrived and stepped into the passinglane, stick flat on the ice. The puck hit his blade and redirected. Toward me.
I caught it on my backhand and accelerated. Two-on-one. I sold the pass, the defenseman bit, and I buried it five-hole.
I didn’t look at the scoreboard. I looked at Heath. He stood at center ice, stick raised, wearing a grin I’d never seen on him. He’d arrived. I hit him before anyone else could.
“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” I yelled in his ear. “You read that! You saw it before it happened!”
“I didn’t think,” he gasped. “I moved.”
“That’s the whole thing, rookie. That’s the whole entire thing.”
His eyes were bright. Wet, maybe. “I thought I was going to screw it up,” he said quietly. “And then I stopped thinking about messing up. I thought about where the puck was going to be.”
“Yeah.”
“And I was right.”
Someone had done that for me once. Lots of someones—Hog, Jake, Evan. They’d been there when my instincts finally kicked in, ready to finish the play. Now I was that person for Heath.
Later:
Pickle:heath had a moment tonight. read a play before it happened. I think something clicked.
