Rook arrived at the same moment as their forechecker and handled the situation by being three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. He moved the puck.
I took a breath and reset.
A non-playoff team was dangerous in the first period and harmless by the third if you didn't let them have a goal in the meantime. Preventing that goal was my only plan.
They tried high, and they tried low. They tried to put a man in front of me before a long shot from up top. Rook moved him before the shot left the stick. A man was left standing in front of nothing. The shot went wide. Heath cleared it.
The game was tied at zero in the break between the second and third periods..
Coach Markel walked through the locker room with his hands in his pockets, saidwe're fine, and walked back out.
Cross won the opening draw of the third period, and our line cycled into their zone. Kieran threw it across the slot to Varga, and Varga buried it. Our bench rattled their sticks. I tapped my left pad with the blocker—my acknowledgment of the goal.
They pushed back hard for the next four minutes. I saw eleven shots and got a piece of all of them. None of the rebounds allowed a second shot. The puck left my pads and died in the corners or came off my chest into Rook's stick.
Their best chance came at twelve minutes in. Their first line broke clean off a defensive-zone draw. They caught Holt in a two-on-one. Their winger was the better shooter, and he caught a pass.
I had read his stick before he had finished pulling it back. I gave him the high glove because the high glove was what he wanted. He aimed for it.
The puck arrived hard enough that the impact ran from the heel of my hand to my elbow. I held on.
The whistle blew.
Heath put us up 2–0 with thirty seconds to go. It was a trademark goal. Heath planted himself at the top of the blue paint with a defenseman's stick under his ribs.
The puck came in low. Heath didn't move his feet. He moved his stick four inches, and the puck was in the back of the net before their goalie had shifted his weight.
Their defenseman shoved Heath after the whistle. Heath looked at him and then turned and skated back to the bench.
We won, still in the playoff hunt. Cross hit my mask with his glove on our way off the ice. Heath tapped his blade against the side of my pad as he skated by.
I had twenty-four saves.
In the car, I checked my phone before starting the engine.
Sully:Good game.
Two words with a capital G and a period at the end.
I typed back.
Pratt:Thanks.
At the condo, I went directly to the counter. Then I walked to the hall closet. The turntable was on the middle shelf next to my condo-sized three foot tall Christmas tree, boxed until December.
I pulled out the turntable and ran a cable to my speakers. I picked up the album cover and tipped the record into my other hand.
The vinyl was matte black. It had a few faint surface marks under the kitchen light. The label was the original, orange and tan, with a small Reprise logo at the top.
I lowered the needle.
There was a soft pop on contact. Vocals began immediately, layered with drums and bass underneath.
I stood at the console with my hands at my sides. Halfway through the second track, I sat.
I was on the floor, back against the couch, knees up, forearms on my knees. It was where Sully had been when he shared his story. He'd reached his hand across the floor and held mine.
I was sitting on the floor of my condo, listening to a record a man I loved had heard a hundred times in a city halfway across the country. He'd left it at my door without knocking.
The first side ended, and the needle lifted. The arm returned to the rest.
I crossed the room, lifted the record, turned it over, and set the needle down again.
I didn't sit for side two. I went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and drank it while the music played. Listening to "Say You Love Me," I crossed over to the window and watched the river move.
When the song finished, it was twelve thirty-one am. I opened my door and stepped into the hallway.
A thin strip of light was visible under Sully's door.
