I'd made a choice. The right choice, by every measure I could apply except the one that mattered most, which was that I'd made it without telling the person it protected.
If I'd told him, he would have done exactly what Heath Donnelly always did when someone tried to carry a weight that belonged to him. He would have refused. Demanded a trade before he'd accept being kept by someone else's signature. He'd have dismantled everything we'd built before he let me reshape the ground underneath him without his consent.
I wasn't guessing. I'd watched him send money home from a paycheck that didn't cover what it needed to and tell his sisterI'm handling it. I'd watched him earn every square inch of ice he occupied and refuse to stand on ground he hadn't paid for himself.
I loved that about him.
My phone buzzed. Headlines already.
BREAKING: Ironhawks sign Kieran Mathers to two-year extension. Legacy locked in: Patrick Mathers's son stays put.
I set the phone face down on the bench beside me.
Smart decision, son.
I dressed. Shouldered my bag. My hip barked on the first step, a stiffness that had settled while I sat.
Practice ended twenty minutes later. I heard the Zamboni before I heard the players.
I was in street clothes, standing at my stall doing nothing useful, when the team filed in. Varga first, mid-sentence, the way Varga entered every room. He clapped my shoulder hard enough to cause a wobble.
"Congrats, man. Two more years of proximity to this." He gestured at himself in full pads. "Most people pay for the experience."
Cross extended a hand. I shook it. "Good for the room," he said. Genuine. Julian Cross offered sincerity the way other people offered business cards, directly, without apology, and only once.
Rook passed without stopping. Tapped the top of my stall with his knuckles twice.
Pratt squeezed through the door in full goalie gear, already half-stripped. His chest protector hung from one arm, blocker dangling by its strap.
"Varga owes me forty bucks," he said to no one. "I had the signing before noon."
"You bet on my contract timeline?"
"I bet on Thompson's lunch schedule. Man doesn't miss a reservation." He sat down and started unlacing. "Deadline's done. Good."
I could have left. I had my bag packed, but leaving required walking past Heath's stall, and he was sitting in it with one skate off and one still laced, not looking at me.
He'd come in third through the door. Moved to his seat without scanning the room, unusual for Heath.
I saw the line of his jaw. Set. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the nape where the helmet compressed it. The back of his neck was flushed from skating.
Everything was the same. Except for the half-second where he didn't look at me.
I left.
Coach Markel kept the film room cold. He'd referenced a study once about attention span and ambient temperature. The chairs were the hard plastic kind that punished slouching.
Heath sat in the first row. Left side. Four seats and an aisle between us. His notebook was open on his knee.
Markel started the film without preamble. Breakout sequences from morning skate. Our line, Cross at center, me on the right, Heath on the left. The footage was from an hour ago.
"Watch the entry." Markel paused the clip. Traced the passing lane with his laser pointer. "This is clean. This is what the structure's supposed to produce."
He advanced the footage. Our line cycled through the drill.
"Mathers. Timing on the release."
"Half-second early," I said.
