Pratt tapped both posts. Rook nodded once from down the bench.
The horn sounded. Final: 4–1.
The locker room was loud after.
"—two goals, two assists, and Donnelly is officially a menace," Varga announced. "I'm upgrading his nickname to The Architect of Mayhem."
"Architects build things," Rook said. "Donnelly's a wrecking ball."
"That's a kind of architecture! It's passive architecture!"
"That's not a thing."
I unlaced my skates and listened to the room. Varga filled the silence the way a Zamboni fills ice: steadily, with an engine noise that was both annoying and comforting.
Across the room, Kieran undressed at his stall.
I didn't watch him. I tracked his ritual by sound alone. The Velcro tear of shoulder pads unbuckled left then right. The soft thud of his skates set side by side.
I knew his body now. And I was supposed to unlace my skates and keep the twelve feet of distance between us.
Varga crossed the room to his stall, which neighbored Kieran's. Clapped him on the shoulder. "Two apples, Mathers. You and Donnelly are gonna make me a healthy scratch."
"No one's scratching you, Varga."
Varga lingered, which he did when he was thinking, which was less rare than people assumed. "Honestly, though—you two are different out there. It's not only the points. It's like you already know."
He said it cheerfully. Offhand. He meant on the ice, but the words lingered.
Kieran's reply was smooth and immediate: "Good linemates anticipate. That's all it is."
Varga accepted it and moved on. I went back to pulling tape off my fingers in strips, my hands steady while my pulse raced.
Pratt walked past in a towel. Dropped a single word, "Sharp," as he passed my stall. It was about the game, but the back of my neck still prickled, knowing I was holding secrets.
I showered. When I came back to my stall, Kieran was dressed. Dark suit. Posture correct, expression neutral. He was telling Rook something about the third-period forecheck.
I put on my suit and checked my phone.
Maggie:4 points??? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?
Pickle:FOUR POINTS. I am taking partial credit on the grounds that I taught you everything you know about spatial awareness, which is a lie, but I'm committed to it now. Hog says congratulations. Juno says she'll edit me back into the podcast intro if you get five next game. The woman is MERCENARY.
I set the phone down and smiled.
When I looked up, Kieran was at the door. Bag over his shoulder. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door as he left. The hallway stretched toward the loading dock, fluorescent and empty.
Our bus idled at the dock. I climbed on. Headphones in. Window seat. My shoulder had stiffened during the cool-down, and my shins carried matching bruises from the net-front traffic.
Three rows back, someone had opened a bag of beef jerky, and the smell mixed with the bus's smell of equipment bags and recycled air.
The city moved past. Brake lights and billboards.
My phone buzzed.
Kieran:Your second goal. The one-timer. Your hands were faster than the film predicted.
Heath:Maybe the film was wrong.
