The radiator clanked twice and clicked once.
The pipe cleaner figure leaned forward on the side table. Bent but upright. Cheap materials, built fast, constructed by a man who believed that presence was the whole point and recovery was about showing up again.
Hard to knock over.
I looked at it for a long time.
Chapter eighteen
Kieran
Three weeks taught me what my body could do without permission.
It could win faceoffs. Execute zone entries with textbook efficiency. Backcheck through neutral ice and arrive at the correct position before the play developed. It could sit on a bench between shifts and drink water at measured intervals and respond to Varga's commentary with sounds that passed for engagement.
My body was a professional hockey player. It had been one for years. The job didn't require the rest of me.
The rest of me sat in a dark condo most nights, staring at aimless entertainment on TV. It drove to Shedd Aquarium on free evenings and recorded water parameters in handwriting that had lost its precision. The rest of me went to bed on sheets that no longer smelled of Heath's cheap shampoo because three weeks was long enough for that to fade.
On the ice, none of that existed. I was Kieran Mathers, a dependable right winger.
We had a home game against Columbus. Tight standings in the Central. Everything counted.
Heath sat four spots down the bench. We hadn't spoken in twenty-one days.
He played hard.
His shifts had an edge, board battles where he finished checks he used to absorb, and puck retrievals where his elbows found ribs. There was a crack in the discipline Markel spent six months building, anger leaking through with nowhere else to go.
In the second period, Columbus scored on a broken play to tie the game. Our line went out. Heath cycled low and drove the net the way he always drove the net: full commit, elbows out, and refusing to leave the space.
Their defenseman met him at the crease. Legal hit. Hard, but clean.
The whistle blew. Play dead.
Heath didn't stop.
He crosschecked their defenseman between the numbers. Blatant and stupid. The referee's arm was up before the stick finished its arc.
Heath skated to the box without looking at the bench.
Varga mumbled beside me, "That's not him."
It wasn't.
We killed the penalty. Heath came out of the box and went straight back to the net front. Third period. Four minutes left. Still tied.
A shot came from the point. Heath screened. Bodies converged. Their defenseman caught Heath turning. The crosscheck landed square between his shoulder blades. Payback dressed up as positioning. Heath's chest hit the post and his body folded around the iron.
He went down.
Half a second. A full second. Two.
I shot to his side. My inside edge caught wrong on the step-over and I stumbled. I caught the boards with my glove and corrected, but the stumble was visible to everyone.
Markel was watching.
Across the ice, Heath pressed his hand flat against the surface. Palm on ice, steadying. He climbed to one knee. Then both skates. Rolled his shoulder once. Skated to the bench under his own power.
