Here's why you're doing what you're doing. Doesn't that feel better than uncertainty?
"Something like that."
"Your mother sends her love. She saw the highlights from last week. Said you looked sharp."
His pivot was seamless. Contract strategy to maternal warmth in one sentence. Mom's observations came via Dad's voice. That was how most family communication traveled.
"Tell her thanks."
"Let's reconnect after the road trip. No rush on the decision, but don't let the window drift. Windows have a way of closing."
"I know."
"Love you, kid."
"Love you too."
The call ended. I set the phone on the passenger seat.
He didn't ask me what I wanted. Instead, he asked for my read on the room. He'd confirmed the offer was strong and reminded me that windows close.
At no point did my wishes enter the conversation.
They never did.
Practice ran hot that afternoon.
Coach Markel had watched film from our most recent loss and decided the problem was soft neutral-zone coverage. He didn't say it in a speech. He said it by designing drills that punished hesitation with contact.
Three-on-three, tight space, boards in play. Win the puck or get hit by someone who wanted it more.
Heath played the way he always played in drills that involved traffic. He went to the hard areas. And he wasn't tentative about it. He drove to the net front, established position, and kept his stick active.
The drill cycled. My group rotated off. Heath's group rotated on.
I stood at the boards with a water bottle, watching.
Heath collected a pass along the wall and turned up ice. Standard transition. Head up, feet moving. Garrett, one of our third-pair defensemen, stepped up.
The hit was clean. Legal. Garrett closed the gap and caught Heath mid-stride with a shoulder through the chest. Heath had been turning his hips to protect the puck when the contact arrived. His skates left the ice.
He went down hard. Shoulder first, then hip, and then the back of his helmet cracked against the ice. The echo carried throughout the facility.
The drill continued around him for two seconds before anyone registered he wasn't getting up.
I moved. One automatic stride.
I caught myself on the second stride. Stopped. Gripped the boards with a gloved hand.
Across the ice, Heath lay on his side. His legs had drawn up, which meant consciousness. It also likely meant the hit had hurt but had broken nothing crucial. With a glove off, he pressed his bare hand flat against the ice, the way you'd press a palm to a cold countertop to steady yourself.
Rook was already there.
Crouched beside Heath, one knee on the ice, and a hand on his elbow. There was a brief exchange. A question. Heath shook his head once and then nodded.
Rook helped him up. Hand on the elbow, steadying. Heath found his edges, rolled his shoulder twice, and picked up his stick.
The drill resumed.
