"Save it," Pratt said from behind his mask. Goalies grieved differently.
"I'm saving it. I want you all to know that I'm saving it, and that it was brilliant, and that none of you deserved it." Rook tapped him on the back of the head as he passed. Varga shut up.
At the far end, Markel stood with his hands in his pockets.
"Donnelly."
I straightened. "Coach."
He took in my stall. The nameplate still bolted in place and the stack of clean practice jerseys folded at the bottom. The tape bits stuck to the rubber mat under my feet.
"You earned your spot." Calm. Measured.
The words landed in my gut, like a nail driven flush. "Thank you."
He nodded. "Be smart. Don't be small."
He didn't look at Kieran when he said it. He didn't look at anyone else either. His gaze stayed on me long enough to make sure it landed, and then he walked out.
Clean-out day came two mornings later. The room smelled like detergent. Gear bags unzipped wide. Nameplates unscrewed. The low industrial hum of the dryers cycling through one last load.
I packed deliberately. Each piece went into my bag with care, elbow pads scuffed from net-front traffic and gloves with the palm thinning where my stick rubbed. The smell of leather and salt stuck to my fingers even after I wiped them on a towel.
This time, I wasn't packing like a call-up. Not folding jerseys with the neatness of someone afraid they'd need to leave the stall spotless for whoever came next. Not checking my phone for a message from my agent.
I knew the numbers now. The extension was signed. Dad's surgery was paid for. The mortgage would hold through the summer and into fall. Maggie had confirmed the math twice, and I'd confirmed it a third time because I was still me. My stall would be mine when I came back in the fall.
Kieran found me after his exit interview. He stepped into the hallway outside the locker room with his phone in his hand. He'd loosened his tie.
"I'm going to Shedd," he said. "Then I'm calling my dad."
I understood what he was saying. He'd been circling the call since before the playoffs.
"You sure?"
"No." He looked at me. "But I'm done waiting to be sure."
I wanted to touch him. The hallway was empty, but muscle memory ran deep, nine months of calculating sightlines and camera angles and who might come around which corner.
"I'll be at my place." He nodded.
I watched him walk toward the parking garage. Controlled, unhurried steps.
I called Maggie from my car. She answered on the second ring. "You're done?"
"Yeah."
"How's your body?"
"Still attached."
A soft laugh. In the background, I heard the click of her keyboard. She was at work.
"Kieran's calling his dad today," I said. Silence on the line. It was a focused hush, meaning she was updating a ledger in her head, moving a number from one column to another.
"Telling him everything?" she asked.
"Yeah."
