Page 98 of Puck You Both

Three minutes in, first hold.

Theo circles my crease once, then he’s gone.

The Wolves own the rest of the period. The shot counter climbs, bodies migrate through my sightline, Becker hunts low while Kane goes high, and my world shrinks to hips and legs, which is my favorite size of world. Late in the period, Becker fires through a forest of feet and a stick tips it. The puck changes toward me, producing a scramble I end by sealing the ice under three bodies and one whistle.

Once the pile peels off, I look down the ice at Wall, who’s had five shots of work all night so far.

Horn. Zero–zero. Shots fourteen to five.

In the dressing room, Berg taps the same spot twice on the whiteboard. "You're waiting for somebody else to take the puck. Stop waiting!"

I take the assistant coach’s tablet to my stall and pull Chicago's entries. On the monitor above, the visitors' tunnel appears, and inside it Wall, mask up, bottle at his mouth. Theo drops onto the bench beside me, close, and whispers.

"You’re staring."

I check the nearest stalls first. Everybody's busy with their own gear. "I'm watching their line change."

He leans in closer. "With your heart?"

I turn my head toward him slowly. The warning transmits. "Relax," he whispers. "Everyone thinks you're plotting murder. Very on-brand."

"We're being outshot fourteen to five," I point out.

"And nobody scored. That's why you get paid the big bucks."

I stand and put on my mask. "Go generate a shot."

He backs toward the door, grinning.

The second period looks better, until it doesn't. Six minutes in, Becker holds the point until Kane opens across from him. I get Kane's release clean through the gap beside Ace's hip. What I don’t get is Groover's stick, waiting. It happens in a blink. The tip changes everything, the post rings behind me, and the light comes on.

One–zero. Fuck.

I watch the replay once. Tip, clean, well-executed. Unstoppable, officially. Making myself believe that takes one squirt of water on the outside and much longer everywhere else.

At the next freeze, Theo coasts in and bends over, pretending his skate needs his attention. "He shot that through Ace, Lindqvist, and at least one unidentified ass cheek."

"It went in."

He looks up at the dark goal light. "Oh, did it? You don’t say."

I pass my bottle back over the net. "Score one."

"Ohh, bossy. Fine. I'll repair your evening."

Chicago nearly makes repairs impossible. A two-on-one, Kane waiting out our defenseman, the pass across, Ace's shot off my shoulder. His stick ends up trapped under my arm.

Then, Theo makes good on his promise.

Kane tries to rim the puck out and Theo puts his body on boards, takes Kane's shoulder as the price, and moves it up before the hit folds him to his knees. Becker collects it and starts the clear. From his knees, Theo bats the pass out of the air, and he's upright and shoveling it to Lindqvist before Becker has a chance to process. Lindqvist shoots through Becker's legs. Wall gets the pad, the rebound squirts weak-side, and our forward buries it while Kane's dive arrives a foot too late.

Light. Tied.

The scoresheet will call that a secondary assist, and the radio will call it energy. I watched him take a hit to keep a puck alive and win a corner from his knees, and if you can rent that anywhere at half price, I’m all ears, motherfuckers.

He comes out from under two Wolves, pointing down the ice at me with both hands. Repair in progress.

Wall circles behind his net, pushes his mask up, and drinks. Every movement is exact. His anger always makes him more precise, as though the goal can be reversed if he performs the reset perfectly enough.