Page 17

"Yes, Coach."

He looks at Hale. "You too."

Hale nods at the floor. Moretti leaves.

I turn to Hale. He's got his skates off and his right leg stretched out, and Dana is kneeling in front of him with an ice bag, pressing it to the side of his knee. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He doesn't answer.

"I'm sorry. I saw the lane. I thought I had it. I shouldn't have⁠—"

"Don't," he says.

"I'm just trying to⁠—"

"Don't." He finally looks at me. His eyes are red around the edges, like he hasn't slept, like he's been awake for a week. "Not tonight, Castel."

Dana glances between us and keeps her mouth shut.

I nod. I untie my skates, and it takes me three tries, because apparently my fingers don't work anymore either.

The reporters come in and they come straight to me, a whole wall of them, bright lights, microphones on sticks.

"Rémy, walk us through the overtime play."

"I tried to go between his legs. He closed them." I try to smile. It doesn't really work. "Good play by him."

"Coach Moretti told you not to get cute in overtime. Was that a coaching decision you disagreed with?"

"No. I just got it wrong."

"Do you regret the move?"

"I regret it didn't work."

I hear it the second it leaves my mouth. I see a couple of them look at each other. It's a good line. It's the kind of line you say when you're winning. When you're losing, it sounds like something else.

"Some people are saying the organization drafted you for the marketing value," a guy says from the back. It's the radio guy, the one who does the afternoon call-in show. "That you're a circus pick. How do you respond to that?"

The room behind the cameras goes still again. I can feel the old guys listening.

"I was the best player in the draft," I say. "I'm still the best player in the draft. Tonight, I made a bad play. That's it."

"Is it hard being the face of something bigger than hockey?"

"I'm the face of my face," I say. "That's all."

Priya says, "Thanks, everyone," and it's over.

Sorel shows up at my apartment an hour later with two bags of food from a Polish place near his building, pierogi and some kind of sausage and a container of sour cream the size of a paint can.

"You didn't have to come," I tell him at the door.

"You texted me a picture of your ceiling."

"It's a nice ceiling."