He didn't look at me. Stood facing forward, stick resting against his leg, glove hand loose at his side.
The announcer's voice grew louder. He moved through the lineup.
Kieran's voice was quiet. Meant only for me. Low enough that the guys three feet away wouldn't catch it.
"You good?"
I turned my head.
"Yeah."
One syllable. Clean.
Kieran touched his gloved knuckles against the inside of my wrist, just above my glove. Then gone.
My pulse slammed hard enough that it startled me.
Cameras were rolling. Teammates were three feet away.
And he’d touched me anyway.
The announcer's voice peaked. Closer now. The crowd responded to each name—volume swelling, then dropping, then swelling again.
"KIERAN MATHERS!"
The crowd noise surged, vibrating the tunnel.
Kieran pushed off. Skated down the tunnel into blinding light. The roar grew even louder as he emerged, shoulders back, stick raised in acknowledgment, stride confident without being showy.
He made it look easy. Like walking into a room full of strangers who already knew your name.
The announcer continued. More names. More explosions of sound.
My turn was coming.
I gripped my stick. The tape felt rough under my glove. Familiar texture. Something solid to hold.
My legs were ready. My brain wasn't spinning disaster scenarios or rehearsing apologies for mistakes I hadn't made.
I was here. In the moment. Waiting for my name.
"HEATHCLIFF DONNELLY!"
A wall of noise hit my chest.
I pushed forward. Nineteen thousand people. On their feet. Screaming.
I raised my stick. Skated toward the blue line, joining my teammates. Kieran stood four players down the line.
The anthem started.
I put my hand over my heart. Focused on the flag hanging from the rafters.
My chest felt tight.
Not with panic. With presence.
With the weight of being precisely where I was supposed to be.
