“Last game, he kissed it three times before putting it on.”
“Yeah, but the game before that, he threw it across the room.”
“Volatile relationship.”
“Very passionate.” I grinned and finished my tape job, running my thumb along the blade to smooth out any bubbles. Perfect, as always. “You think it’s harder being married to Belov or being his equipment?”
“Equipment doesn’t have to listen to him talk about his save percentage.”
“Fair point.”
Marco straightened up from his stretch and reached for his shin pads. He adjusted the left one, frowned, and fumbled with the strap.
I set my stick aside and leaned over. “Here.”
He didn’t argue, just let me untwist the strap—easy fix, but Marco’s pregame focus made him clumsy with the small stuff sometimes. His brain was already on the ice, reading plays that hadn’t happened yet, already three steps ahead of everyone else in the building.
I tightened the strap to exactly the tension he liked. Snug but not cutting off circulation. I’d watched him do this enough times to know.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“No problem.”
I settled back and grabbed my stick again, starting on the knob tape. Marco continued gearing up beside me, and we fell into the comfortable silence that came from three years of doing this dance together. I knew when he’d reach for his elbow pads—after shin pads, before shoulder pads, always in that order. I knew he’d check his skate laces twice, even though they were fine. I knew he’d put his jersey on right before we headed out for warm-ups, because he hated wearing it in the locker room.
Just like he knew I’d tape my stick at his stall. I’d wrap the knob exactly twelve times. Bounce my leg when I got antsy, and that meant I needed to move, needed to do something with the energy building under my skin.
“You want to run the Columbus power play?” he asked, pulling on his shoulder pads.
“You’ve already memorized it.”
“Doesn’t hurt to talk through it.”
Which meant yes, he wanted to talk through it, because talking through plays was how Marco’s brain worked. He had to verbalize everything, had to build the game plan out loud before he could execute it on the ice.
Different from me. I learned by doing, by feeling my way through situations, by trusting my instincts in the moment. My father used to scream at me about it. “You need to think! You need to use your head!” But thinking too much just messed me up. I played better when I let my body take over.
Or at least, I used to. Lately, my instincts felt broken. I’d second-guess myself, hesitate, miss reads I should’ve made automatically. The game that used to come naturally felt like moving through mud.
“Their first unit sets up with Cloutier at the point.” Marco strapped his chest protector into place. “He likes to walk the line, looking for the one-timer, but watch for the cross-ice pass to Morrison on the weak side.”
I nodded, but the information slid right past me. I was thinking about Papa’s call last night, about the stat sheet I’d seen this morning, about Coach Wilson’s tight expression when he’d looked at me during practice.
“Morrison’s got that quick release,” Marco continued. “So, when they set up, you’ll need to—” He stopped. “You’re not listening.”
“I’m listening.”
“What did I just say?”
I couldn’t answer.
Marco’s expression flickered—frustration, maybe, or disappointment—then smoothed back to neutral. “Never mind. Just watch Morrison on the weak side.”
“I will.” But we both knew that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I couldn’t seem to focus on anything anymore. Not game plans, not opponent tendencies, not the fundamentals that used to come automatically.
Coach Wilson walked by, tablet in hand, and stopped when he saw us. “Savard. Tonight better be an improvement.”
“Yes, Coach.”
