It wasn't seamless. Tampa had worn specific instincts into him, but he was a smart player and he'd done the work. By Thursday's practice, the gap was narrowing. He asked good questions and didn't ask the same one twice. I'd corrected his angle positioning on the left side twice in two days. Both times he'd adjusted before I finished the sentence.
It was an important game. We were third in the division. Third was the last playoff spot. Nashville was only two points behind."
Varga was mid-sentence when I entered the locker room, tracking Holt's statistics. "Forty-two percent puck-battle win rate in the defensive zone last season. That's genuinely not bad. I looked it up." He paused as if he expected someone to dispute it.
Holt, pulling on his gloves, said, "You researched me?"
"I'm thorough," Varga said. "Always want to know who I'm playing with. Isn't that normal?"
"It's something," Cross said. "It's not like he arrived yesterday." Varga opened his mouth and then decided to save it.
I did my post taps, left then right, heel of the stick, and moved through my crease reads. For the first period, both teams were cautious. I tracked Holt through every defensive rotation in myzone. The gap was still there when he had to choose fast, but it had almost disappeared.
We scored midway through the second. Kieran threaded a pass through traffic to Cross in the high slot, and the fans roared. I celebrated for three seconds and refocused.
Forty-one seconds after the face off, the left side opened.
It wasn't wide, like the six-foot gap in Detroit, but it was enough. The lane existed for less than two seconds, but the shooter found it and fired.
I was already there. It came in hard on the blocker side, and I deflected wide.
Holt saw the whole thing from eight feet away. I said nothing.
He adjusted on the next shift and the one after that. By the third, he was arriving early enough that I stopped tracking the gap specifically and let it fold into my general read.
We won 2-0. I handled the reporters in the post-game corridor. One asked about the second-period coverage rotation. I told him what had changed and when.
Heath and Kieran were in the tunnel near the equipment bay. Heath was still in partial gear, one shin pad off, holding it like someone had interrupted him mid-thought. He looked up when I passed and said, "Nora poured me something last night I still can't identify. I think it had mezcal in it. Are you sure your neighbor's bar is the right environment for a person with a job?"
I picked up my bag. "Carver's," I said. "South of us on LaSalle."
Heath pointed the shin guard at me. "I know where it is, Pratt. That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking about your neighbor."
"I know what you're asking."
The garage was quiet by the time I got to my car. I started it and pulled out. I stopped at a red light on LaSalle.
The bar was a block south.
The light changed.
I parked in the garage and took the elevator up. As always, when I arrived, I drank sixteen ounces of water and stood at the counter, letting the adrenaline continue its decline.
There was no sound from the other side of the wall. Sully would be home within the hour, maybe less. There would be music. Almost always there was music.
I moved away from the counter. I was in bed, blanket pulled to my chin, when I heard the two raps on the door. I waited, and there was no other sound, no door opening.
I got up.
Sully was in the hallway in his work clothes and sock feet, holding a takeout container. His keys were not in evidence.
"In my defense," he said, "I was carrying soup."
I had the spare key in my hand already and entered the hallway. I inserted the key into Sully's lock.
The door opened.
He looked at me, then at the open door, and then back at me. I followed him inside.
