"Kieran, Heath, the three-point night, the chemistry on that third goal—"
Rook stopped. Turned. Filled the corridor with twelve years of NHL experience and the understanding that the hallway between the ice and the room belonged to the players.
"Tomorrow."
The reporter read his comment and lowered the recorder. "Sure. Thanks, Mattias."
Rook resumed walking without looking at either of us.
He'd seen the hand. Had decided, without drama, that the appropriate response was to stand between us and the person who might ask about it.
I looked at Kieran. He was already looking at me.
Postgame ran fast. Cross was already half in street clothes when I passed. He looked up from unwrapping his fingers. "Good series game." Pulled a strip free. "Most guys play a goodgame. There's a difference."
Before I could respond, Pratt appeared beside my stall, still toweling off. "Screening was good in the second. Stayed out of my sightline." He continued past without breaking stride. He paused at Kieran's stall, said something low. Kieran nodded.
Markel delivered his analysis. "Deployment was clean. Forecheck adjustments Wednesday. Film at two."
His gaze passed over me without pausing. When Markel stopped looking for problems, it meant he wasn't finding them.
I showered. Let the water run until the heat worked into my ribs. The tile was cold under my feet.
When I came back, the room had thinned. Rook sat two stalls down. Unhurried. He tossed me a towel without looking up, and when I caught it, he held my eyes one beat longer than usual.
I nodded. He went back to his bag.
I pulled on a clean shirt and checked my phone.
Maggie:Three points??? Call me when you're not being famous.
Pickle:THREE POINTS IN A PLAYOFF GAME. I am claiming spiritual authorship. Hog is knitting you a commemorative something. He won't tell me what.
I smiled, packed my bag, and headed for the door.
The series compressed time the way only a playoff run could.
Games stacked on each other. Travel days that were transfers, not days—bus to plane to bus. My body accumulated damage in layers. Bruises on my ribs, forearms, and the inside of my left knee. By Game 3, they overlapped. I stopped keeping track.
We lost Game 2. Their defense tightened the cycle exactly as Cross predicted, took away the back-door lanes and made every possession feel like digging post holes. I spent fifteen minutes of ice time getting cross-checked in front of the net by a defenseman who'd decided that if he couldn't stop me from screening, he could make my presence painful.
Kieran played cleanly and correctly the entire game. Drew a penalty late that should have been the game, but our power play misfired and the puck found its way out instead of in. We lost 2-1. He sat at his stall afterward and untied his skates with the same slow precision he used after wins, and something about that precision made me want to break things.
It wasn't frustration with him. It was the game, and it was hard to watch how he folded disappointment into routine while I sat three stalls down with my fists clenched around the memory of a power play that should have been a goal.
I broke nothing. I undressed. Showered. Got on the bus.
But the anger was new.
Game 3 was Nashville. Landed at BNA with the city shimmering under May sunshine. Nashville arrived through the bus windows as a series of contradictions: construction cranesand bachelorette crowns, Baptist churches and pedal taverns, everything loud and dressed up for the weekend.
Bridgestone Arena was loud. Organized chants between whistles. Someone threw a catfish onto the ice during warmups, and Varga photographed it "for anthropological purposes" while the ice crew removed it with the practiced disgust of people who performed the chore regularly.
We won 3-2 on a Julian Cross goal with four minutes left. In the tunnel, their captain gave me the nod that meantyou're annoying and I'll see you Thursday.
Eddie stopped me outside the visiting training room. He held a bag of ice and two ibuprofen. "Your ribs look like a Pollock painting," he said. "Take the anti-inflammatories or I'm telling Markel you're being too brave."
I followed his instructions.
