Nobody mentioned it. Nobody made a speech. They were just sticks with tape on them, and we were just a team getting ready to play a game.
The horn sounded. Warmups ended. I skated back toward our bench and passed Murph going the other direction.
He didn't say anything. Just tapped his stick against mine as we crossed, the way players do, the way we'd done a hundred times when we were teammates.
But he held my gaze for half a second longer than he needed to.
Then he was gone, and the game was about to start.
The puck dropped, and everything else fell away.
This was the part I knew, the part that had never betrayed me. Skate, read, react, find the lanes, anticipate the play. I'd been doing this since I was eight years old, and my body knew what to do even when my brain was somewhere else.
First shift, I won a board battle against a defenseman I used to practice with. Second shift, I set up a shot that went wide. Third shift, I took a hit along the boards that rattled my teeth and got back up, and kept skating.
The crowd was loud. I couldn't pick out individual voices, couldn't tell who was cheering and who was jeering. It was all just noise, a wall of sound that pressed against the glass and faded into the background once I was moving.
Midway through the first period, a slur cut through the arena noise. Someone in the lower bowl, maybe ten rows back.
I didn't look. I just took my position for the faceoff and waited for the puck to drop.
The puck dropped. I won the draw, fed it back to my defenseman, and cycled into position. Thirty seconds later I was in front of the net, screening the goalie while a shot came in from the point. It deflected off my shin and trickled wide.
We scored late in the first. Not me, but I was on the ice for it, clogging up the slot while Colton roofed a rebound over the goalie's shoulder. He crashed into me during the celebration, grinning like a maniac, and for a second it was just a goal, just a game.
Then I glanced at the stands. A guy in a Utah jersey was making a gesture I didn't need to interpret.
I looked away.
Second period, Utah tied it up. Murph got the assist, a nice pass from behind the net to their center. He celebrated with his teammates, and I tried not to think about how we used to celebrate together.
The game got chippy after that. A late hit here, a slash there. Nothing unusual for a divisional matchup, but it seemed sharper tonight. Or maybe I was imagining it.
Vega dropped the gloves with one of our defensemen midway through the second. From the bench, I watched them throw punches while the crowd roared. Vega used to protect me. Now he was on the other side, fighting someone who was theoretically protecting me instead.
The refs broke it up. Both guys went to the box. The game continued.
We went into the third period tied 1-1. The ice was choppy from two periods of hard skating, and my legs were heavy. I hadn't slept well the night before, too wired thinking about what today would bring. Now I was running on adrenaline and muscle memory, and stubbornness.
We got a power play halfway through. Coach put me on the first unit, same as always. I took my spot in the left circle and waited for the play to develop.
The puck moved around the perimeter. The lane opened before it was there, and I shifted my weight and one-timed the pass into the top corner. The goalie didn't have a chance.
The arena exploded.
Colton crashed into me first, then Hendricks, then the rest of the unit piled on. I was somewhere in the middle of it, helmet knocked sideways, gloves pounding my back. Someone was yelling in my ear and I couldn't make out the words, but it didn't matter.
When I skated back to the bench, I glanced at the crowd. The woman with the PIPER PRIDE sign was on her feet, screaming. The kid next to her was jumping up and down. Somewhere else, probably, the guy who'd called me a slur was sitting in silence.
I hoped he was choking on it.
We held the lead. Utah pulled their goalie with two minutes left, and we weathered the storm, blocking shots, clearing the zone, running out the clock. When the final horn sounded, we'd won 2-1.
The handshake line was the part I'd been dreading.
It was tradition. You lined up and shook hands with every player on the opposing team, win or lose. Usually it was automatic, a blur of gloves and mumbled "good games." But tonight I'd have to look at guys who used to be my teammates and see what was in their faces.
Murph found me in the middle of the line. He grabbed my hand and pulled me in, helmet to helmet.
