At the boards during a water break, Benny squirted water toward Milo’s skate.
Milo looked down. “Was that necessary?”
“Yes,” Benny said. “Your tape job is dehydrated.”
“My tape job has character.”
“Your tape job has a terminal diagnosis.”
Jace took a drink and shook his head. “I can’t believe I used to think I was the problem in this room.”
“You are,” Roman said, gliding up. “They’re just background noise.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I blew the whistle before the exchange could grow legs. “Neutral zone. Groups of five.”
The professional distance between Jace and me held. I corrected his positioning once, no softer or harder than I would have for anyone else.
“Too deep,” I said as he coasted past the boards. “Trust the support.”
He nodded, breathing hard. “Got it.”
That was all.
No second meaning spoken out loud. No private look dragged into public. He went back to the line and fixed it on the next rep.
Still, the words stayed with me.
Trust the support.
If only life responded that neatly to correction.
After practice, the room settled into its usual post-ice chaos. Damp gear. Shower steam. Trainers moving in and out. Someone complaining about groin soreness with no dignity whatsoever.
I stopped near the corridor outside the locker room to talk with Grant about tomorrow’s travel schedule. Through the open doorway, I caught Roman’s voice.
“You seem lighter.”
I didn’t move.
Jace answered too quickly. “That your medical opinion?”
“No. My medical opinion is that your left skate smells like death.”
“That’s Benny’s stall.”
“Nice try.”
A pause. Then Roman again, lower. “I’m serious.”
The room didn’t go silent this time. Benny and Milo were arguing over who had stolen whose shampoo. Water ran in the showers. Privacy by volume.
Jace said, “I had a lot of shit sitting on my chest.”
“And now?”
