I don't knowwasn't failure. It was the most honest thing I'd said in years.
Chapter thirteen
Heath
My skates were too sharp.
Danny had cut them the same way he always did: same hollow, same finish. Fourteen minutes on the wheel as usual. I'd watched him do it.
I checked the edges twice after. They were perfect, which was the problem. Perfect edges on fast ice meant every stride bit deeper than I expected and every stop sprayed harder. At every turn, the skates threatened to overcorrect.
I was the first one in. Equipment room lights still cycling on with the hum of compressors filling the hallway. The air had that distinctive concrete and rubber matting pre-dawn rink smell.
I dressed without thinking. Socks, shin guards, and pants. The order hadn't changed since juniors.
Tape. Stick. Blade check. Blade check again.
Varga showed up mid-sentence.
"—Tribune'srunning a thing. Feature-length. You and Mathers. They're calling it a revelation, which is a word I've only seen used about religious experiences, so congratulations on your canonization—"
"It's a line pairing."
"It's a cultural moment, Donnelly." Varga dropped into his stall and began unlacing his shoes. "Quote: 'The Mathers-Donnelly partnership has quietly become the most productive wing combination in the Central Division.' That's not me. That's Miles Rowan. Pulitzer-adjacent."
"Rowan doesn't have a Pulitzer."
"Pulitzer-adjacent. I said what I said." He kicked one shoe off, and it hit the wall behind him. The other shoe followed an identical trajectory. Practiced chaos. "Also, your little interview clip is still trending. Which for Chicago means four million people watched you say Kieran's name like it was a sacrament you were trying to pronounce casually."
I pulled my laces tight. "I said his name normally."
"You paused. You smiled. The internet has opinions." He paused in his undressing to hold up his phone, scrolling with his thumb. "One account made a GIF of just the smile. Fourteen seconds. It's got a fan edit with theTitanicmusic. Tasteful stuff."
"Delete that from your phone."
"I didn't save it. I bookmarked it. There's a difference."
Rook's voice cut through from two stalls over, flat and final. "Varga, let the man tie his skates."
Varga pointed at Rook without looking up. "You're in the GIF thread too. Someone screenshotted you nodding at Heath after the assist Tuesday and captioned itdad approves. You've gone viral in the father-figure demographic."
Rook said nothing.
On the ice, Markel's whiteboard still held the same names in the same positions, the ink fading at the edges but never erased. It was permanent.
First drill. Three-on-three, controlled breakout. I cycled low behind the net and came up the wall. Kieran was alreadymoving, not toward me, but toward where I'd be in two seconds. His pass arrived on my tape before I'd finished planting myself.
Third rep. Fourth. Fifth. Each one cleaner than the last. Each one requiring less thought.
On the eighth, I anticipated Kieran's carry and cheated toward the net a half-second early. The pass still connected.
Coach Markel's whistle. One short blast.
He skated to the boards.
His voice was calm as he uttered words I'd heard before. "Stay where your skates are."
It was the instruction he'd given me on opening night, when my brain had been three plays ahead of my feet.
