Sleep came in fragments. The hotel was on Broadway, and the strip didn't quiet down; it just cycled from country to pop to someone's boombox at 2 a.m.
On the plane after Game 3, I sat in my usual window seat. The cabin smelled like equipment bags and the gas station gummy worms Varga had hidden inside a hollowed-out copy ofThe Art of War, which the nutritionist had confiscated twice and which kept reappearing in different luggage..
Kieran sat one row ahead. Headphones in, not listening.
I leaned forward between the seats.
"Their D-man is cheating toward the boards on the cycle. Started in Game 2. He's leaving the back door open if we sell the net drive and pull up."
Kieran turned, tugging his headphones down. "You saw that?"
"Third rep in the second. He bit hard when Cross faked the wrap-around. Slot empty for almost two seconds."
Kieran tracked it, eyes moving, mapping the play on a surface only we could see.
"Pull up to the dot instead of driving all the way. I can hit you on the forehand."
"Timing has to be before the far-side forward recovers."
"It will be."
Varga's head appeared over the seatback.
"Are you scheming? I have a sixth sense for tactical conspiracies. It's a gift and a burden."
"Go to sleep, Varga."
"I demand naming rights on any play developed in my airspace."
"There's no play."
"That's what schemers say." He pointed at both of us. "I'll be watching Game 4 with a detective's eye and an informant's lack of loyalty."
He vanished.
Kieran looked at me. The corner of his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile.
I closed my eyes. Ribs aching. Engine humming. Let the noise carry me toward something adjacent to sleep.
Game 4. Nashville again. Second period. Four minutes left.
I drove the net. Full commitment. Elbows out. Stick flat. The space in front of the crease was mine. I'd been paying rent on it since October.
Their defenseman had been working me all series. He played the body with the belief that enough hits would eventually change my address. He didn't know me well.
The puck cycled low. Cross held it along the wall. Rook pinched from the point.
I turned to establish position. Read the goalie's stance and the coverage rotation the way Kieran had taught me when we reviewed film, anticipating what was about to happen instead of reacting to what was.
A hit came from my blind side.
It wasn't the defenseman I'd been battling. It was his partner. Full speed, shoulder through the numbers between my shoulder blades.
My chest hit the post.
The iron caught me directly in the sternum and folded me around it. The air left my lungs in one forced exhale.
My helmet hit the ice. Arena noise flattened to a hum.
