Chapter twenty-three
Pratt
Detroit's arena had sightlines I'd adjusted to three years running. The glass behind the net sat a few inches higher than at home. The boards came back faster off the corners, not dramatically, not enough to throw anyone, just enough to register as a variable on first contact.
I made the necessary adjustments.
I ran my pre-game routine in the visitors' locker room the way I ran it everywhere. I dressed left to right in the same order. The posts had the same dimensions as at home, and the crease geometry was the same. None of it changed based on zip code.
Early in the first, a winger barreled down the left side, with his head down, telegraphing the shot before his stick moved. The puck came in at mid-height, blocker side. It deflected off the leather and died in the corner.
Holt was there before the rebound finished moving, angling the forward away from any follow-up attempt. He moved the puck up the wall.
I reset.
Cross won a defensive zone draw cleanly on the left side, and the puck moved out of our end without any of us having to scramble. It was the kind of sequence that didn't make highlight reels but kept our team in the game.
We scored in the second period. Kieran put one through traffic from the right circle. It wasn't a hard shot that would make highlight reels. It was textbook timing executed at top speed. Cross added another off a draw win and a wrist shot from the high slot.
Their push came in the third. The Wings were running out of time, and they knew it. They loaded up the front and started dumping pucks deep, trying to generate chaos in front of me.
I tracked, set, and let them come. Two shots that might have been trouble were taken away by Rook appearing from somewhere behind the play.
Final horn. We won the game 2-0.
In the tunnel, I checked my phone before my sweat had dried. Nashville won too.
I looked at the number, put the phone away, and walked into the locker room. The math didn't change, and there was no movement in the standings. We had one must-win game remaining.
On the way home, the plane was at cruising altitude before Varga finished his recap to anyone who would listen. I had my headphones on.
Varga fell asleep somewhere over southern Michigan with his mouth open and his phone balanced on his chest. Holt took photos.
Rook had the window seat and was looking at the clouds outside. Cross had reclined exactly two inches and stopped there.
I watched the altitude display climb to thirty-one thousand and level off. Then I closed my eyes.
The flight ran two hours and change. I tracked the descent by pressure and didn't need the display to tell me when we were close. Chicago came up through the cloud layer the way it always did, the grid arriving all at once and then sorting itself into neighborhoods if you knew what you were looking at.
I was looking forward to being home.
I could have said after any road trip for the past six seasons. What was different was that home included a someone now.
When I arrived at my condo, I drank sixteen ounces of water at the counter. Sully's side of the wall was quiet. He was working late at Carver's.
I lay on my back in my dark bedroom and ran the crease geometry the way I always did before sleep on the night before a home game. I was checking that the house was in order.
We had one game left. My preparation was complete. The rest would resolve on the ice.
I closed my eyes.
***
I returned home from morning skate at eleven am. My key was in the lock when I heard a sound from inside. It wasn't music. It was a documentary voice, even and unhurried.
I opened the door.
Sully was on my couch with his feet up on the coffee table and a book open across his knees. He'd pushed his hair back off his forehead. He wore a flannel shirt from my closet and a pair of socks that didn't match.
