She’d hear too much in it, and I’m not sure I’m ready for how much there is.
I go get my gear. Brick follows me halfway down the hall then changes his mind and goes back to her.
Smart cat.
Pregame.
Twelve steps from the locker room door. Left at the equipment room. The smell of ice at the second turn — that specific cold that means something is about to happen.
I get to my stall.
The folder is taped inside my locker door. Seven to one against us. Expert panels unanimous. Hendricks and Cole. Every analyst who wrote us off before Game 1.
I take it down. Fold it once. Put it in my bag.
The door is empty now. Four seasons of keeping track of every person who didn’t believe in this — and now the door is just a door. That’s what it looks like when something has done its job. Not dramatic. Just done.
It served its purpose. I know what it says. I’ve always known what it says.
I just needed to look at it until it stopped meaning anything.
And it stopped meaning anything somewhere between the Conference Final, a tunnel, and a woman who sat down next to me without a recorder and told me the truth.
Thirteen wraps. Left to right. Blocker last.
Ghost quiet.
I go to my crease.
We lose 3-2.
Thirty-one saves. Ghost stayed quiet the whole game — I read every shot, held the wall, made the calls. That’s the part that sits with me after. Not the loss. The fact that I did everything right and it still wasn’t enough.
Their captain deflects one off Aiden’s skate with forty seconds left. Wrong angle, wrong bounce, nobody to blame, nowhere to put it. It crosses the line before anyone can do anything about it.
That’s hockey. I know that’s hockey. I’ve known that for twelve years.
Still have to sit with it.
Final buzzer.
Series tied. 2-2. Two more.
I don’t have to look for her. I just know where she is the way I know where the crease is — not something I check, just something that’s true.
Press area. Left side. Camera at eye level. She’s already looking at me when I get there.
I walk through the room.
She lowers the camera.
“Two more,” I say.
Something in her face. Not pity. Not worry. Just — her. The woman who sat in a tunnel without a recorder and named the thing I’d been carrying for two seasons. Looking at me like she already knows I’m going to be fine.
“Two more,” she says.
Neither of us says the rest of it.
