***
Morning skate started at nine.
I was on the ice at eight forty-three. It was early enough that the surface still held the Zamboni's last marks, clean arcs across the face off circles, with the blue paint sharp at its edges. I ran my edges along the boards first, left to right, getting the feel of the ice.
By the time the forwards came through the gate, I'd set myself.
The first drill was straightforward. Kieran moved the puck low along the boards, and the shot came from the right side later than the setup suggested. I was ready when he fired, trying to catch me between adjustments. The puck hit my pad and went to the corner, where Holt collected it without breaking stride.
The second run I tracked the puck through two screens without losing it, set my angle, and the shot went wide. Holt had closed the lane earlier than the drill called for. His instincts were right.
Third was the setup we'd flagged in film — weak-side, where the half-second gap had been opening. Holt stayed on his man. I didn't need the extra quarter-second of adjustment I'd been building in for weeks.
I moved on.
Cross ran the power-play unit through two cycles at the other end. Varga was talking, "—every time, every single time, he drops his left shoulder before he shoots. Doesn't matter if it's a slap shot or a wrister, the shoulder goes first. I saw it twice in October and once in the preseason, and I'm telling you it's a tell, it's a genuine tell, you can set a clock to it."
Rook listened the way he always did. He faced forward and processed the words without acknowledging receipt.
I completed the final drill and skated to the crease.
Tapped the left post and then the right with the heel of my stick, not the blade. I used the same pressure in the same order, no variation permitted. It didn't require thought, only execution.
The session ended, and I skated off the ice.
The locker room was at its usual volume.
Varga had concluded his hockey analysis and moved on to the Pittsburgh hotel breakfast. "—the iron was set to medium. Medium. Who sets a waffle iron to medium? You get this gray, sad, limp situation that is not a waffle; it's a waffle's lesser cousin, and I told the guy, I said this to his face, I said, 'You have one job in this entire breakfast operation and the one job is the temperature—'"
Cross ate a protein bar and nodded at intervals. Rook was at his stall with his back to the room, removing tape from his stick.
I worked through my post-skate routine.
I took my gloves off and set them on the upper shelf. My helmet lived on a hook, with the visor facing out. The pads were in order: left before right. I emptied my water bottle, rinsed it, and placed it open-mouth-down on the towel at the back of the stall.
Heath was across the room. He was at his own stall, with one skate off while working on the second. His shoulders were relaxed. Beside him, Kieran had his phone out, scrolling.
I was folding my jersey when Heath looked up. He looked directly at me, and then he smiled. It was brief, took only a second, but I caught it.
Varga finished, apparently satisfied with the verdict he'd reached, and crossed the room. He stopped at my stall and stood closer than necessary. He dropped his voice low to a level that was technically private.
"You got laid last night." He said it the way someone else might saynice save,factual and approving. "Good job, man." His shoulder bumped mine.
I pulled my jersey over my head. He was still there when I emerged.
"Oh my God." His voice went up slightly. "You did. Damn."
He bumped my shoulder one more time and walked away requiring nothing further from me.
I finished dressing and headed for the parking garage. Heath and Varga had clocked something and reached the same conclusion. One of them knew for sure who I'd been with.
I drove home. The hallway was different. When I placed my key in my door, I heard Sully's voice next door and multiple other voices. I unlocked my door and went inside.
Standing in the entrance to my condo, I listened to the sound coming through the wall. It was laughter at overlapping intervals, at least four people, maybe six, not counting Sully. His voice cut through the rest like it did at Carver's when the bar was loud. The Bee Gees' "You Should Be Dancing" pulsed underneath, periodically buried by conversation stacking on top.
I hung my keys on the hook and put my coat in the closet. I checked my phone; no texts.
Sully had people in before. I knew the sound of his condo at full capacity. What was different was the position it put me in now. Before last night, I'd assumed a clear functional linebetween what happened on his side of the wall and how my evening would unfold. That line was hazier now.
