Sleep didn't come.
I'd done what I could. Called Pickle. Checked my skates until the metal sang under my fingernails. Sat across from Kieran Mathers in a fluorescent-lit booth, sharing our insomnia.
Everything else was physics now. Blade angle and whether the puck bounced my way.
The alarm went off at six-thirty. I was already awake.
Shower. Coffee. Oatmeal with peanut butter, banana sliced thin. Same breakfast I'd eaten before every game since juniors.
The Red Line platform was nearly empty. A woman in scrubs read her phone. Two guys in construction gear shared a thermos. The train arrived half-empty, smelling like rain and someone's breakfast burrito. I found a seat near the middle.
My stop was four blocks north of the arena. One foot in front of the other. Pavement solid beneath my shoes.
The players' entrance curved down into the earth. Concrete ramp and a security gate manned by someone who'd seen my face enough times to nod me through without asking for ID.
The temperature dropped ten degrees once I was underground. The air tasted stale, recycled, and metallic. My footsteps echoed off the concrete walls.
Fans never saw this part. It was the behind-the-scenes machinery that kept the spectacle running.
When I neared the locker room, bass-heavy hip-hop bled through the walls. I stepped inside to find Varga holding court near the showers, gesturing with both hands. The sharp bite of menthol balm cut through the air.
I unpacked at my stall, looking at the DONNELLY nameplate bolted to the wall. White letters on black. Permanent.
"Donnelly."
Rook called from two stalls over, already half-dressed.
"Rook."
"Sleep?"
"Some."
He grunted. Went back to his tape job. Rook treated questions like equipment checks—ask once, answer, and move on.
Across the room, Varga was still talking.
"—I'm telling you, opening night crowds are unhinged. They paid two hundred bucks to watch us, which means they expect entertainment. You think they're gonna be patient if we spend the first ten minutes dicking around in our own zone? They'll turn on us like—like—"
Pratt answered, "Like Varga after two espressos?"
"Exactly! Wait, no—I'm being prophetic here! You all undervalue the role of prophecy in modern athletics!"
"Prophecy is you being loud because you're wired."
"I am appropriately caffeinated for the magnitude of this moment—"
I pulled my jersey over my head. The fabric was heavier than the practice ones. My number, 48, was stitched across the back in Ironhawks red and black.
Varga had finished his pronouncements, and Pratt walked past in full pads. Goalie gear made him look like medieval armor had learned how to skate.
I laced my skates. Pulled them tight. Checked the tension.
The door opened again.
Coach Markel stepped inside.
The volume dropped.
