Chapter seven
Pratt
Iwoke at five forty-two, two minutes before the alarm, and didn't move.
The floor had pulled the heat out of my back somewhere around three and not returned it. My right hip stiffened during the night, consistent with Tuesday's drill sequence. It wasn't structural, and a hot shower would handle it.
I sat up, folded the blanket in thirds, pressing the creases flat with both hands. I set it against the baseboard.
The shower ran hot enough that the mirror fogged before I finished. It was four minutes, timed in the beginning, but now my body kept count without me.
I worked my right hip through its range while the heat moved into the joint: external rotation, internal rotation , and straight extension until the catch released, allowing it to move cleanly again. I spread my hands against the tile, checking my grip response. The knuckle on my right index finger had taken a stick heel in Thursday's practice and was still thick at the joint.
Sully's side of the wall was quiet. It always was at six-fifteen. His days ran late, and his mornings were short. I absorbed his schedule the way I did everything in my environment, by proximity.
In the kitchen, I pulled out a skillet, heated the oil, and placed the chicken strips in it. I'd cooked my rice for the week and portioned it into containers on the top refrigerator shelf. My carrots were on the next shelf down, already chopped. After fifteen minutes in the air fryer, they'd be ready.
I ate standing, plate centered on the counter, with my water bottle to the right. Game-day eating was fuel, not truly a meal. It was maintenance of the body with a sequence attached.
Somewhere in the middle of eating, I set the fork down and it landed at an off angle. Four degrees, maybe. The tines pointed toward ten o'clock, with the handle drifting left.
Sully had kissed me the day before, the way a forward cuts to the net when the defenseman is distracted. He wasn't fast or loud, just there before I read the play. I didn't move. I wasn't sure I'd have moved if I had seen it coming.
He said goodnight without making it a production and went home. I'd stood at the closed door for a moment doing nothing.
I picked the fork back up and finished the meal. The kitchen ran quiet and clean around me, anchored by the low hum of the refrigerator. The counter was clear, with nothing out of place. When I finished, I rinsed the plate and set it in the rack.
Three things had to be present before I left the condo: keys, wallet, and phone. I checked the pockets.
After pulling on my coat, I played the first ten seconds of the "More Than a Feeling" chorus. The lift is immediate; no runway required.
I gathered my gear. The lamp was still on in the corner. I'd left it on after Sully went home and didn't turn it off before bed. Ithad sat in its box for five weeks, then Sully appeared in the gap of my door, and it was glowing in the corner within a half hour.
I picked up my bag and went to work.
Game day morning skates ran lean, forty minutes, sometimes shorter. It was a quick system check.
Rook was already in his stall when I entered the locker room, dressed to the waist and reading something on his phone. He glanced up.
"Morning."
"Morning."
He went back to his phone.
I dressed left to right: left skate, right skate, left pad, right pad. No variations, particularly on game days. Alterations were errors, and they could set off ugly chain reactions.
Varga was already talking when he arrived, apparently continuing something from the parking garage.
"— Pittsburgh needs a name by tonight or the window closes. These things have a half-life." He dropped into his stall and scanned the room. "Pratt. Weigh in."
"No."
"That's not engagement."
"I know."
He pointed at me like I'd confirmed something useful, then turned to Cross, who was busy taping his stick.
