Page 40 of Slashed Bonds

Nothing. That’s what.

Nothing except be a disappointment, right up until the moment my skills get to have their say.

I’ve made peace with disappointment. It’s the second act I care about.

I walk.

The lobby is visible before I reach it, a full wall of black glass with the concourse lit up behind it in that low, expensive, moody way that says the electrical budget alone could have kept Sheldrake open another decade. Beyond the concourse, through a second wall of glass, I can see the rink itself.

And there’s a skate going on.

Late. Later than any practice I’ve ever heard of.

I slow down.

Six skaters, maybe seven. A goalie at the near end in gear so black it swallows the light. They’re running a low-to-high drill. Defenseman feeds the point from below the goal line, the point man walks the blue line, and a forward crashes the net for the rebound.

Simple drill. I ran it at fourteen.

I ran it wrong at fourteen too, which is why I know what to look for.

The point man is the problem. He’s walking the line well enough, feet quick, head up, but he’s telegraphing the shot. Every time he gets the puck, his bottom hand slides down the shaft a half inch before he’s decided what to do with it, and a defenseman who’s paying attention can read that like a headline. Shot’s coming. Get in the lane.

And the forward crashing the net is arriving too early. He’s at the crease before the shot leaves the point, which means the goalie has him in his peripheral the whole time and has already decided where the rebound is going to land.

Late arrival, hands ready, blade on the ice. You get there when the puck does, not before.

Renaud used to run us through it with a tennis ball on a dry floor when the ice was down, until the timing lived in our legs instead of our heads. I could still do it blind.

The defenseman below the goal line makes the pass again, and it’s clean, no wasted motion, tape to tape, the kind of pass that arrives so quietly you’d swear the receiver had it all along.

The thing that stops me is the defenseman.

Number four. Tall, thick through the shoulders, hair past his collar, and I’ve watched him on a cracked phone screen enough times to recognize the posture before I read the number. He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t lunge. He takes the ice away from the forward by occupying it, stick flat, hands quiet, and the forward has to go where he’s allowed to go, which is nowhere useful.

A wall with a legal team. Said so myself.

The forward tries to cut back. The wall shifts eighteen inches. The cutback dies.

Then the point shot comes, and the goalie is already out at the top of his crease, further than anyone should be, blocker high, and he leaves a lane low along the ice that anyone with eyes can see.

There it is.

The forward on the crash sees it. His blade opens. His head drops a fraction toward the gap.

And the pad is already across.

He shoots straight into it.

The goalie doesn’t celebrate. He doesn’t hold the position. He resets to center, taps both posts with his stick, left, right, left again, and waits for the next one.

Three taps. Every time.

I know that habit. I know it from the film, and I know it from somewhere else, some room behind my eyes I can’t get into from out here, and the not-knowing itches.

Knox growls again, louder.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”