Page 97 of Puck You Both

Chicago: in, barring an asteroid. Us: one point below the line.

The graphic refreshes and gains the words MUST-WIN, capitalized and pulsing. Thank you, really. Every man in this locker room has that fact carved into the inside of his skull, but by all means, flash it in red, in case one of us planned on treating tonight as practice.

Three stalls down, Theo is performing.

He's been doing it since we walked in, louder than his usual loud. The trade report hasn't come up once, which is how I know it's the only thing in his stall with him.

I watch him for a few seconds, until he meets my gaze.

The grin stays up for the cheap seats, but his eyes do a quick private thing underneath it. You good?

I give him an up nod. Half an inch of an answer. Are you?

His chin comes up a fraction.

Fine, then. We're both lying.

Coach Berg steps into the middle of the floor and waits for quiet. "They're comfortable," he says. "We're not. Make them uncomfortable."

Theo raises one hand. "I can make anyone uncomfortable. It's a special skill of mine."

Berg points at the tunnel. "On the ice, Moreau."

Theo rolls his eyes. "Limiting, coach."

Stalls empty around the laugh. Theo passes close and knocks his shoulder into mine, one clean thump, and then he's gone toward the tunnel while my phone lights up in my stall.

Tata: Big game. I am watching. Call me when you get home.

Will do, my thumbs produce. I look at it, shake my head and send him a thumbs-up emoji instead.

Theo’s head pokes out from the doorway. "Are you planning to join us?"

I put my phone away and grab my mask. "Skate."

"Romance is so dead."

The tunnel hands us over to the noise.

I run my routes: scrape the blue paint, tap both posts, then check the sightline.

At the far end, Wall's hair announces him to the crowd.

What captures me, is the A on his mask, painted on so recently I can almost smell the lacquer. Pride comes up fast and warm, before I squash it, because I'm standing in my own crease one point below the wild-card line, proud of the opposition.

Focus, Grześkowiak.

We pass near center on the last lap a few minutes later, both of us holding speed. "The A is crooked," I say.

He doesn’t break stride. "It isn't."

"Then the mask is."

“Nice try, G.”

The puck drops, and Chicago comes out exactly as comfortable as advertised. Becker to Kane, Kane to Ace, who opens his shoulders a breath early. That breath is my entire livelihood. I'm across before the puck is. It hits the middle of my chest and drops dead between my pads.

Whistle.