He walked away. Four strides later, he stopped beside Kieran at the boards. Whatever he said was brief. Kieran nodded once.
First rep together. I lined up on the left half-wall. Kieran took the right circle. Cross at center.
The puck moved low to high. I cycled behind the net and came out the other side. Kieran had already shifted, creating a passing lane I hadn't asked for but was where I needed it.
I hit him in stride. He one-timed it. Holloway kicked it out.
Second rep, Kieran carried wide. Drew two defenders with a head fake that made them both commit a half-step too far. The lane to the net opened.
I was already there. His pass arrived on my tape like he'd measured the distance with a ruler.
Goal.
Third rep, Cross won the draw back to the point. I drove the net. Kieran drove with me. He pulled their defensemen wide. I had the crease to myself.
The puck arrived. I buried it.
Kieran skated past me on the reset. We looked at each other. Two players confirming a read. Nothing anyone watching would flag.
There was a difference between playing next to someone and playingwiththem. The first was geography. The second was a conversation.
In Vegas that night, I scored again. Rebound chaos, Kieran's assist. Markel sent us right back out. The broadcast booth noted the chemistry. The beat writers noted the minutes.
San Jose, three days later, was where it changed.
The Shark Tank was already into it during warmups, towels waving and noise that bounced off the low ceiling. It was our third game in five days. The game was a grind, but something happened in the second period that I'd replay more times than any goal.
Kieran carried through neutral. I drove the net, then stopped. Planted. Let their defensemen commit. Then I pivoted, not to the net, but back to the half-wall.
The puck was already on its way.
Kieran had read the pivot before I'd finished making it. His pass hit my tape in the exact spot I'd arrived at a half-second earlier, which meant he'd sent it before I got there. He'd trusted where I was going to be.
I one-timed it. The rebound kicked out. Kieran was there. Tap-in.
His goal. My assist.
The commentators used the word telepathic, which wasn't right. Telepathy implied something supernatural. This was instinct.
Anaheim and Arizona blurred together, wins and the steady accumulation of evidence that the line pairing wasn't an experiment anymore. By the time we landed in LA for the last game of the swing, the beat writers had pivoted away from the rivalry.
Room 1518 at the LA hotel. King bed. Blackout curtains and a connecting door.
I took a shower and ordered room service. Settled in with a cooking competition rerun where a woman uttered words of encouragement to her soufflé. I understood the instinct.
The soufflé collapsed, but she kept going.
My phone buzzed.
Kieran:You awake?
I looked at the connecting door. Looked at my phone. Looked at the connecting door again.
Heath:Yeah.
Thirty seconds of nothing. Then a knock. Not from the hallway. From the connecting door.
I turned the lock and opened it. Kieran stood in the frame. Sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He was carrying a tablet.
