Heath came in still talking, glove tucked under his arm, helmet swinging from two fingers.
“—I’m telling you, Pickle said he had a dream the Sleeping Giant woke up and walked into downtown Thunder Bay. Like—Godzilla, but nobody cared.”
He stopped at Kieran’s stall and leaned in without waiting for an opening.
Kieran didn’t look up. He kept his stick braced against his knee and continued his tape job, steady and exact.
Heath reached out and dragged his fingertips once across the back of Kieran’s neck as he passed behind him. Kieran’s shoulder shifted slightly. He didn't pull away or stop taping.
I watched for a few seconds before returning to my gear.
On the ice, I checked the crease. The overnight crew had been thorough, leaving no soft spots. I moved with a lateral push left, reset, and then to the right. The geometry was clean.
I came off the ice with my hip loose, and my edges sound. Cross fell into step beside me in the corridor.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
A slight pause. “Dearborn. New Chinese place. Don’t go late.”
Cross peeled off toward the training room.
***
It was early afternoon when I returned to my building. There was a folded piece of paper with the edge tucked under my door. I crouched and picked it up.
9.5 is a serious score. I'd have questions about the 0.5 deduction if I weren't also the guy picking off packing foam.— next door
I read it again. The handwriting moved fast and didn't double back, loose letters with a slight rightward lean. The fold landed somewhere between halves and thirds, not committed to either. It had a perforated edge from a notepad still attached at the top.
Folding it back, I didn't use the original crease. That one ran slightly diagonally. I folded parallel to the edge, properly.
Inside my condo, the lamp was still on. I set the note on the counter, close to the center, where it wouldn't be in the way of anything.
Next door was quiet. I took my phone out, selected "Heart of Glass," one of Dad's favorites, and set the volume low.
I went to get ready for the game.
***
Pittsburgh played the way Pittsburgh always did on the road—physical in the corners. They always made it ugly before the game ended.
The first period ran clean. The second tightened when their top line started winning retrieval battles and generating second chances I had to account for in real time. A deflection off a shin pad changed angle late and caught me high on the blocker. I controlled the rebound, but it came off harder than I liked.
I had eleven saves through two periods and six more in the third when they started loading the front. They put two bodies at the top of the crease, one crosschecking for position, and collapsed my angles. I took contact twice without a whistle.
They pulled their goalie with four minutes left and put six skaters on the ice. The building grew loud; the sound vibrating up through my skates before it reached my ears. I tracked the puck, read the lane, and decided before the shot left the stick. I'd done it ten thousand times before.
Cross put the puck in their empty net with thirty-eight seconds left. I had eighteen saves. We won.
The locker room after the game was loud for the first ten minutes. Coach Markel stepped in once, not raising his voice.
“You stayed inside it,” he said, looking in my direction before he moved on.
Cold air hit my sweat-streaked body when I pulled my base layer over my head. That was always the moment the game actually ended, not at the horn or with Cross's empty-netter. It was the cold of exposure after a full game wearing pads, blocker, and glove.
I stood under the hot shower until my hands felt like my hands again.
