That was my goal.
I had nineteen saves, with no goals allowed. My performance didn't require explanation in a story. It was consistent, repeatable, and invisible.
I pushed through the locker room door.
Varga was already at the center of the room, narrating a game recap to Lindqvist, who was half-listening while he unlocked his stall. "—Kieran in the second period is what I'll remember. He tested Columbus and shook them up with that shot." A considering his own words. "That's how you get to a three-one win."
"Three-one," I said.
"Right." He pointed at me. "Exactly. Three-one. See, Pratt gets it."
I was dressed, bag packed, and in the corridor while Varga was still mid-narrative in the locker room.
My exit was clean. I walked to the bus. The engine was already running, a low vibration through the step when I climbed in. I took my usual seat, set my bag at my feet, and leaned back against the window.
The Columbus crowd followed patterns. They built pressure in the second period, not the first. I'd observed it during film review and confirmed it in our game. The noise arrived in waves that peaked on power plays and bottomed out in the neutral zone. It was predictable, and Kieran's goal reduced it to a low hum.
Every building had a version.
The crowd in Pittsburgh directed their noise and made it personal, interested in making sure I understood they were present. They tried to unbalance the game with pointed shouts. I focused on the crease.
Early in my career, I kept a small notebook. It was a series of figures: post depth, crease width, and the distance from the top of the paint to the face off circles. They were numbers I knew by heart, but writing them down settled something inside.
I stopped carrying it in my third NHL season. I'd fully internalized the numbers. They lived in my body now, instead of on paper.
The hotel rooms on road trips were interchangeable. Each had a bed pushed against the wall, a desk opposite, and a window with blackout curtains I pulled within thirty seconds of arrival. Temperature controls varied, but I aimed for sixty-six degrees, whether I needed heating or cooling to reach it.
The texts started in Columbus. I was in the room forty minutes after the final horn. I lay in bed with the blanket pulled up to my chin. My phone buzzed on the nightstand at 11:48.
Sully:Carver's was a disaster tonight. Not in a bad way. The kind where something minor goes wrong early and every decision after that is slightly off. We ran out of garnish by nine. Nine, Pratt! That's a structural failure.
I read it and considered my response.
Pratt:What garnish?
His response came in four minutes.
Sully:Citrus. Cherries. The decorative scaffold of the entire operation.
I put the phone down and went to sleep. Another message came at 12:33 am Pittsurgh time.
Sully:Still awake?
Pratt:Yes.
Sully:Good game. The third period looked tight from the bar camera.
Pratt:It was acceptable.
Sully:That's your language for good, right?
Pratt:Yes.
In Nashville he sent a voice memo by accident and followed it immediately with:
Sully:Ignore that. Wrong person. Do not listen to it.
I told him I hadn't listened to it.
