"How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to know you grind your teeth."
"Bus at nine?"
"Nine-thirty."
Kieran stood. Found his shirt beside the tablet on the carpet. He collected himself in pieces. He stopped at the connecting door and turned his head with a hand on the frame.
"Your reads are still elite."
Before I could respond, he stepped through, and the latch clicked behind him.
I showered and pulled on an Ironhawks hoodie.
At seven-fifteen, the hallway was empty. I pulled my door closed and walked toward the elevator.
The lobby was bright. Marble floors. Eucalyptus. I was halfway to the restaurant when the second elevator opened behind me.
I saw Kieran exiting in the reflection of the restaurant's glass doors. Fresh shirt. Not rumpled.
Julian Cross appeared. He moved through the lobby with the unhurried authority of a player who'd been in the league long enough to own every room he entered. He already had coffee in hand.
He walked past me and then glanced at Kieran. Seconds later, he sat alone at a table by the window and pulled out his phone.
***
That night, the puck dropped at 7:30 PM.
From the first stride, something was different. My fatigue was still there, but it settled into the background. My edges were clean and my hands were quick.
Coach Markel sent us out for the second shift. Kieran on my right. Cross at center.
Their defenseman picked me up at the blue line. Six-four, two-thirty-five. He got a hand on my hip and leaned in .
I absorbed it and stayed on my feet.
Kieran carried wide. Drew their weak-side D, and the lane to the net cracked open. I was already moving.
He hit me in stride. I tipped it. Rebound to Cross. In.
Second period. Their coach doubled coverage in front of the net. I got crosschecked twice and took an elbow that snapped my head sideways. No whistle.
On the next rush, Kieran drove to the net himself. Their defenseman stepped up and landed a hit designed to separate Kieran from the puck and his consciousness simultaneously.
Kieran took it square. Absorbed the contact through his shoulders and kept his skates under him. The puck squirted loose.
I was there, in the lane he'd created by pulling both defenders toward himself. Tape to tape. I one-timed it. Bar down.
The horn went off.
Kieran skated toward me. His tap on my shin pad and a brief collision of our shoulders constituted an acceptable display of affection in professional hockey.
What was only for me was the look in his eyes. It was the same as what I'd seen when I saidtell me what feels goodand he respondedthis—being the one who starts.
Third period. We were protecting a lead. I held the puck along the wall an extra beat. Let their forward commit. Slid it through his skates, back to Kieran. Two-on-one. He snapped a wrist shot far side.
His goal. My assist.
