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There was a monitor bolted high on the wall across from me. I watched the game on it with the sound off while the arena noise came through the concrete on a half-second delay.

We were up three–two with four minutes left. Edmonton had been in our end for most of a minute. Their center, one with a long reach who’d beaten Pratt twice in Game Three, had the puck along the half wall and kept faking the pass to the point. Trier was in front of Pratt, leaning on a winger who battled him for the same square foot of ice.

The center shot. Pratt kicked it out to the corner, and Trier got there first.

He didn’t try anything clever with it. He shot it off the glass and out. Our fans roared.

On the monitor, Trier coasted to the bench and stepped over the boards. He accepted a water bottle from Callahan. I watched him as he sat with his elbows on his knees and his head down, breathing hard.

Devin appeared in the corridor with two minutes left and stood beside me. Neither of us said anything. With forty seconds left, Edmonton pulled their goalie, and Rook blocked a shot with his shin.

The puck ran the length of the ice and missed the empty net by a foot. The clock counted down the remaining time, and the game horn sounded. We’d won. We were going to the Stanley Cup Final.

The noise hit the tunnel hard enough to rattle the door beside me. After more than a decade in Chicago, a championship was in sight.

Through the tunnel mouth, I saw a slice of ice crowded with red and black jerseys, gloves in the air, and sticks dropped everywhere. The team had piled onto Pratt in the crease.

When they broke apart, Trier skated out of the crowd beside Rook with his helmet off and an arm around Rook’s neck. He was laughing.

I wanted to be close to him.

“Mark.” It was Tasha in my ear. “The league wants the trophy-presentation pool at the bench door in ninety seconds.”

“Devin’s walking them down,” I said. He was already on the move.

The first reporters were coming up the corridor wanting to know where to stand. The one in front had her phone out. “Is Peaches available for comment?”

“She’s sleeping,” I said. “Stand by the blue wall.”

***

The next night I was home at the counter, with my New York arrangements open on the laptop. The final interview was in three days. I’d booked two nights in New York and a flight back the afternoon after the interview. The Cup Final opened two nights after the interview.

My phone buzzed.

Trier: I’d like to talk to you. In person.

Then, a moment later:

Trier: I could fly out the morning after your interview. It’s an off day before the series starts. Markel has already cleared it as personal, and I’d be back for practice the morning after. I wouldn’t miss anything.

I read the messages a second time.

Mark: Yes.

Mark: My hotel is on 47th, near Sixth. There’s a coffee place on the corner. Ten?

Trier: Ten. I’ll text when I land.

The interview agenda was still open. I had six questions left on my legal pad, including ones about staffing authority and what happened when a club refused a league directive in public.

Three days later, I was in a conference room on the twenty-sixth floor of the league office on Sixth Avenue. It looked down over the tops of the trees in Bryant Park.

Leah had sent one text before my flight: Nothing on fire. Go.

There were four people at the table. Graham sat at the near end, pouring water for everyone. Elaine Marsh, the deputy commissioner, sat at the head. She had her reading glasses pushed up into her gray hair and a printout of my résumé. The other two ran legal and broadcast.

They didn’t make an effort to sell the position to me. Elaine spent the first twenty minutes describing problems that needed fixing.