Barrett doesn’t deny it or try to explain. Just holds Jack’s gaze. “Not here. Not now.”
“I’m not playing with him in net.”
“Jack.”
“I’m serious, Barrett. Call the backup. I don’t care who you put in that crease. It’s not going to be him.”
“We’re not doing this in a hallway.”
“We’re not doing this at all. I’m not playing.”
“You don’t have that option.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“You don’t.” Barrett takes one step forward. “You’ve been playing for twenty years to get to this exact hallway. You are not walking away from Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals because you’re angry at my starting goalie. You can be angry tomorrow. You can be angry next week. You can be angry for the rest of your life. Right now you have forty seconds to get your head on straight and skate to center ice. This is not a request, Anderson.”
“Get him out of the building.”
“No.”
“Barrett–”
“No.” The word lands flat. “I’m not putting a backup in Game 1 of the Cup Finals because you caught your daughter kissing him in a closet. That’s not a coaching decision. That’s a tantrum. And you don’t get to throw one on my bench.”
Jack looks at him. Then past him, at me. Then at Mackie, half hidden behind my pads.
“This conversation isn’t over.” He’s not looking at me. He’s speaking to Barrett and the corridor and whoever else needs to hear it.
“It is for now.” Barrett says.
Jack turns and his skates thump down the corridor toward the tunnel. He doesn’t look back.
Barrett watches him go. Then he turns to me.
“Almardon.”
“Coach.”
“You’re playing in four minutes. Get your glove. Get your mask. Get to your crease.”
He turns to Mackie. “Mackinnon.”
She steps out from behind me with her chin up.
“Go home, honey.”
“Uncle Dean–”
“Not tonight. Go home.”
Barrett touches her shoulder once, then turns and follows Jack down the corridor.
Mackie turns to me. Her hand comes up to my cheek.
“Zach.”
“Go home, Mack.”
