I went to the bedroom and changed into a grey t-shirt and black joggers. I laid out the arena suit for later.
In the living room, I put on a Premier League replay from the night before. It was Liverpool against Brighton. I had not seen it live, and I had avoided seeing the score.
I stretched out sideways on the couch with my sock feet at the far end.
I had picked up Premier League from Varga. He had been on a Tottenham run two seasons back and would not stop talking about it.
Tottenham didn't hold my interest, but Liverpool did. The pace of the games was the part that had hooked me. Theyhad two halves that totaled ninety minutes. They didn't blow whistles every thirty seconds, and commercial breaks didn't interrupt play.
I had not told anyone on the team that I watched it. Sully heard the TV through the wall a few times and asked once what I had on. I said soccer and watched him decide whether to follow up. He said nothing but went back into his condo and put on something with a laugh track loud enough to make a point.
Brighton scored in the eleventh minute.
I watched the goal twice: the live angle and the replay from behind the net. The keeper had committed too early. It pulled him away from a low shot at a tight angle. It was the kind of goal that, in hockey, would have me on the bench before the next puck drop.
When I settled in for my nap, Sully's condo remained quiet. I already had my eyes open when the alarm sounded at five.
***
In the tunnel before warmup, Kieran fell in beside me.
"Something happened with Sully," I said.
Kieran didn't break stride.
"It's not about me."
"Okay."
That was the entire response. A trainer pushed past us with a tape gun. Kieran turned toward me as we reached the locker room door.
"You doing alright in there?"
It could have been concern from a friend or checking to make sure I was in the game. Probably both.
"I think so," I said. "Haven't finished my read on it yet."
"No rush."
He went through the door first. I gave him three steps and followed.
***
The anthem played. I stood at the top of my crease with my helmet down and my skate edges square to the blue line. The first verse didn't register. It was always the second that pulled me in. I held my breath through the last eight bars and let it out on the cymbal crash.
I tapped both posts with the heel of my stick, left first, then right, and dropped into my stance.
The puck dropped.
The first shift belonged to Carolina. They were a non-playoff team playing out the string, and a non-playoff team played out the string in one of two ways. Some skated as if they were already on the beach. Others skated like men who'd been told all year they were the problem and had three games left to prove otherwise.
We ran into the second kind.
They came at us hard on the forecheck. Their first line cycled the puck through Rook's corner and tried to throw it back to the point, where their defenseman was already moving down the wall. Rook stepped up the second the pass left the boards, took it off the defenseman's stick before he had the puck flat, and chipped it to Cross at the red line.
Their first real chance came at four minutes in. They grabbed a turnover at our blue line, executed a quick give-and-go through the high slot, and their winger came down on me alone with his head up and his hands soft.
He waited for me to move. I didn't. He went for the backhand at the last possible second and tried to lift it past my pad. I was already there.
