Page 48 of Captain’s Orders on the Ice

OWEN

We lose in L.A., four to one, and Castel's on the ice for three of them.

It's not the offense. He's fine on the offense. He hits a post in the first and draws a penalty in the second with a move that makes their defenseman look like he's skating in sand. It's everything else. He cheats up the ice before we have the puck. He chases hits instead of taking away the pass. On their third goal he's standing at the top of our circle with his stick in the air, waiting for a breakout pass that never comes, while their winger walks in behind him and scores.

Moretti doesn't yell. Moretti never yells after a road loss. He just walks past Castel's stall on his way to the showers and says, "Minus three," without stopping, and that's worse.

I don't say anything to him either. I'm not ready to look at him yet.

I've been not looking at him all day. Not at the pregame skate, where he stood next to me in line for the drills and hummed. Not at the pregame meal, where he sat across from me and ate pasta and asked if I wanted his bread, and I said no without looking up. Not on the bench, where he sat down beside me after every shift, close enough that our shoulders touched through the pads.

My hand still feels like it's on top of his.

It's stupid. It's a hand. People touch hands. He put his on my chest because I couldn't breathe, and I put mine over it because I was drowning, and that's what you do when you're drowning, you grab the closest thing. That's all it was. It was gratitude. I was grateful.

I'm still grateful. That's all this is.

Rule nine is video after every game. Thirty minutes. Mandatory.

I wrote it. I can't skip it now.

He's sitting cross-legged on his bed with his hair wet from the shower and a hotel towel around his neck. I'm at the desk with my laptop. I've got the game file up, cued to the first of the three goals.

"Do we have to," he says.

"Rule nine."

"I know what I did wrong. I was there."

"Then it'll be quick."

He sighs, gets up, and comes over to stand behind my chair so he can see the screen. He leans one hand on the back of the chair. I can feel it through the fabric, right between my shoulder blades.

I hit play.

"There," I say, and pause it. "Where are you?"

"At the blue line."