Russo notices it too.
“He’s good at adjustments,” he says quietly during a break in play.
“No kidding.”
“It’s rare.”
He’s right.
Most players come into games with a plan and stubbornly stick to it even when it stops working.
Shaw watches and learns. He’s not scared to try something different.
Changes.
Every shift looks slightly better than the last.
My awareness of him becomes… annoying.
At first, it’s just professional. He’s on my line. If we’re going to win games, I need to know where he’ll be on the ice. When he’ll pass. When he’ll cut inside.
But somewhere along the way that focus starts drifting outside the game itself.
I notice things.
How he never celebrates goals for more than a second before skating back toward the center line.
Little habits and rhythms. Like tapping his stick twice before every faceoff.
During one practice Russo slides the puck to Shaw along the boards.
I’m already moving before Shaw even looks up.
The pass lands perfectly on my stick.
Goal.
Russo laughs.
“You two are starting to read each other.”
“Yeah,” I say.
But my attention is already drifting back toward Shaw.
He nods once, quiet as always, and skates back toward the line.
The wins keep coming. Nothing spectacular. Just hard-fought games where the Giants finally stop looking like a team waiting to lose.
The campus starts noticing.
Students show up wearing old Blackwood jerseys again.
The crowd grows louder each night.
And yet, the more time passes, the stranger Shaw’s absence off the ice becomes.
One afternoon after a particularly brutal practice, Mercer corners me near the lockers.
