I checked in with my body. Ribs screaming. Neck stiff but mobile. Legs present. Vision tunneled but clearing.
I heard the bench shift, twenty bodies leaning forward.
Then Kieran moved.
I didn't see it. I was face down, trying to remember how to breathe.
I heard the first stride, and then he stopped.
With a glove off, I pressed my palm flat. The cold steadied me. Rose to one knee. Then both skates.
Pain flashed in my chest. I rolled my shoulder. Full range. Painful, but full.
Skated to the bench under my own power. The crowd cheered.
A trainer appeared with a penlight and questions.
"Bruised. Not broken. Let me play."
The trainer looked at Markel. Markel looked at me.
"One shift. We reassess."
Four spots down, Kieran sat with his water bottle on his thigh. Gloves off. Left hand gripping the bench edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
Markel sent me out with Varga's line. Forty seconds of controlled hockey that told the building I was still here. When I came off, Kieran's line was next over the boards. He delivered sixty-three seconds of clean, furious play. Won every battle. Finished a check that sent their forward into the glass hard enough to rattle the dasher.
Nashville at night smelled like fryer grease and river water. The hotel was downtown. Through the window, neon bled pink and blue across the wet pavement. It had rained while we played. The city carried on without us.
I sat on the edge of the bed in boxers and a t-shirt, with an ice pack taped to my ribs. TV on low. Playoff coverage. They showed the hit once. I watched my body fold around the post and turned it off.
A knock came at 10:35.
It was Kieran wearing sweatpants and an Ironhawks t-shirt. He looked at the ice pack.
"Trainer said I'm fine."
"I know. I asked. Can I come in?"
He didn't hover. Moved my jacket from the desk chair to the closet hook and sat down.
I lowered myself onto the bed. The mattress dipped, and the ice pack crinkled.
Kieran leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
"You stayed down for two seconds."
"I know."
"Longest two seconds of my life. Including the elevator."
I looked at him. The overhead light cast shadows in the hollows under his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping either. Broadway bass pulsed faintly through the wall, a honky-tonk's rhythm section carrying on into the night.
"I almost came out there. Wasn't thinking. I moved without thinking. Rook would've had to tackle me."
"Rook's too old to tackle anyone."
"Rook is ageless and would absolutely flatten me if necessary."
