***
Morning skate ran for forty minutes. Film was shorter, twenty-five, and it focused on Nashville’s top unit. Coach Markel made adjustments that Cross wanted through the neutral zone.
In the locker room, I checked my phone before I’d finished pulling the tape from my stick. It was blank.
“Laser tag,” Heath called from two stalls down. “Tonight. Kieran found a place that takes it seriously.”
I looked up. “What does that mean?”
“It means they have league nights,” he said. “Scoreboards. Strategy. You should come, Pratt. Take the offensive for a change.”
I had nothing I could pretend interfered. Sully was off for the day, but I hadn't heard from him. We were free until the morning skate tomorrow.
“Okay,” I said.
Heath nodded once and went back to his gear.
"I'm in too," piped up Varga.
I finished dressing, placing my gloves on the upper shelf. My helmet was on the hook, facing out. I picked up my phone on the way out.
I stood in the fourth-floor hallway long enough to confirm the absence of sound through Sully's door. There was no movement or music.
I considered knocking and gave it one quick rap. I waited three minutes. There was no answer. I stepped back, turned, and went down the stairs.
The laser tag arena was louder than I’d expected.
It wasn't chaotic. It was structured noise, voices layered and feet pounding in rhythm. The floor was a grid of partitions and open lanes, angled walls that broke sightlines at regular intervals.
I stopped just inside the entrance and took it all in.
There were three primary routes from the entrance to the far wall. An elevated platform sat along the right side. Near the center, a blind corner marked where two lanes intersected at ninety degrees. The lighting was low enough to obscure depth perception, but it was consistent across the floor.
Kieran was already there, talking to Heath at the check-in counter. He saw me and opened his eyes wide.
“You came.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me for a second, then smiled and turned back to the attendant. “We’re going to need one more.”
We geared up. I wore a vest and sensor points. It was lighter than my hockey pads, with no restriction through the shoulders. I tested the weight distribution, then the range of motion through my arms.
“Rules are simple,” Heath said. “Don’t shoot your own team. Try not to get shot.”
“Understood.”
The first round started without ceremony.
I took the left route off entry, cut through the central partition, and held at the corner where the sightline opened to the far lane. Two players crossed wide without checking the angle. I tracked both, waiting for the second to commit to the turn. I tagged him at close range.
On the second pass, I shifted right, took the elevated platform, and stayed there long enough to watch the flow. Most of the players moved forward consistently, only doubling back when they hit resistance.
Unpredictable movements were golden. I didn’t chase. I let them come through the space I targeted.
“Jesus,” someone said behind me after I tagged him from the corner without stepping into his line. “Where did you come from?”
I moved to the next position.
