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"Owen, Rémy, first game on a line together. Four points between you. What's the chemistry like?"

"Good," I say.

"Good?" Rémy turns to me. "That's all you got? Good?"

A couple of reporters laugh.

"It was a good game," I say.

"It was an amazing game." He turns back to the cameras. "He knows where I'm going before I go there. It's kind of scary, honestly. It's like he's in my head. I'm going to start wearing a hat so he can't read my thoughts."

More laughs. The Tribune guy is writing fast.

"How'd you two develop that so quickly?"

"Extra ice," Rémy says, before I can stop him. "He's been teaching me defense. Late at night, when nobody's around. He's very strict. He yells at me about my stick."

"I don't yell."

"You don't yell with your voice," Rémy says, and the whole scrum cracks up.

"Is that true, Owen? Private lessons with the rookie?"

My mouth's dry. Priya's looking at me over the top of her printout.

"It's what captains do," I say. "Last question."

In the hallway after, Priya falls into step beside me. "That was great," she says. "Genuinely. The fans are going to eat it up."

"Yeah."

"You okay? You look a little pale."

"Long game," I say, and keep walking.

We beat Minnesota. Then Columbus. Then St. Louis on the road, and Dallas at home, and Detroit in overtime, on a goal where he goes wide and I go to the net and he doesn't even look. He just knows.

Five in a row.

The beat writers start calling us the Old Man and the Kid. Somebody makes a graphic with my face and his face side by side, me frowning, him grinning, and the caption GRUMPY AND SUNSHINE. It gets forty thousand likes. Nadia from brand prints it out and tapes it to the door of the video room. Somebody draws a mustache on me. I'm almost positive it's Webb.

"You're smiling," Webb says, the morning after Detroit.

We're in the weight room. I'm on the bike, pedaling slow to keep my knee loose. He's on the one next to me, not pedaling at all, reading something on his phone.

"I'm not smiling."

"You're smiling at the bike."

"I'm pedaling."

"You're pedaling and smiling." He puts his phone down. "Five in a row. Top line. Three goals in five games. You haven't had three goals in five games since I had hair."

"You still have hair."

"Since I had good hair." He leans back. "I'm happy for you, Cap. I mean it. You look like somebody I used to know."

I don't say anything. I keep pedaling.