Varga's voice arrived before most of the players did, already mid-narrative about the final two minutes in a tone that suggested he was broadcasting it for posterity. Heath was still in his gear, laughing at something Kieran had said in the tunnel.
I hung my helmet on its hook, visor facing out.
Varga appeared at my shoulder.
"Twenty-four saves." He slapped me on the shoulder. "Twenty-four saves and one goal on a shot through a screen that I could not have stopped, and I want that on the record."
"It won't be on the record."
"It's in my heart." He thumped his chest. "We're in, Pratt."
"Yes."
"That's all you've got?"
"Yes."
***
Martin was at the desk when I came through the lobby.
He looked up. "Hell of a last two minutes," he said.
"It worked out."
"More than that." He leaned forward slightly. "That last save on the point shot. It was a work of art."
"I got lucky with the angle."
He shook his head. "Still."
I crossed to the elevator.
The fourth-floor hallway was quiet. There was light under Sully's door. I knocked, three evenly spaced raps.
He opened the door, wearing an Ironhawks t-shirt and dark jeans, barefoot. He reached out for a hug.
"Playoffs," I said.
He'd already opened wine.
It was on the counter with two glasses, already poured. I picked up the nearest glass and swallowed a mouthful.
Sully was already heading for the couch. I joined him.
"I watched the last two minutes standing up," he said. "I didn't realize I'd been standing until it was over."
"What were you doing before that?"
"Sitting on the floor." He drank. "I don't know when that happened either."
"The point shot," he said. "At the end. The one you—" He made a motion with his free hand. "How did you see it?"
"I tracked it late."
"But you got it."
"This time."
