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"Well then, don’t take too much longer or you’ll miss the entire game."

I take the shot, then follow him toward the boards.

Across the ice, Beau is talking to one of his teammates. He looks good. Stronger than he was in college, quicker than the last time we played them.

I know how much work it took him to get here. I also know better than to expect him to appreciate hearing that from me.

He catches my eye near center ice as we circle back.

"Good to see you getting these minutes," I tell him.

His gaze drops to the Hawkeyes logo on my chest, then comes back up.

"No thanks to you."

He skates away before I can answer.

I let him.

It’s not a great start but it’s the first words we’ve had in six years. If I want Baylor, I’m going to have to get him to talk a little more than that.

Beau catches me against the glass four minutes into the first.

I’ve already moved the puck, but it isn’t the latest hit I’ve ever taken. My shoulder takes most of it, and I push off the boards with my good arm before turning back toward the play.

He follows close enough for me to hear him.

"Still standing?"

"Keep skating," I tell him.

He does, heading after Hunter.

I get back into position.

We’re both here to win a hockey game. I can do that without turning every hit into an argument, even if he’d prefer otherwise.

The next one comes halfway through the period.

I collect the puck behind our net and send it up the boards. Beau comes through on my bad side, driving me into the glass hard enough to knock the air out of me.

Pain runs from my shoulder down my arm.

I swear, get my stick back on the ice, and follow the puck.

He knows.

Everybody who’s watched enough film knows which side I’ve been protecting. That doesn’t make it pleasant when he chooses it.

Hunter looks at me when we reach the bench.

"You good?"

I nod. "Yeah."

He glances toward San Diego’s bench.

"He’s finishing everything tonight."