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The whistle goes.

"Two minutes, slashing," the ref says, pointing at me. "Twenty-seven."

"He said⁠—"

"I don't care what he said. Box."

"Did you hear what he said?"

The linesman won't look at me. He heard it. I know he heard it.

"Box, Castel," the ref says. "Or it's ten."

Varga's getting up. He's smiling again. He skates past me on his way to the bench and says, very quietly, "Thanks, sweetheart."

I look for Owen.

He's standing at the edge of the scrum with his gloves still on. He heard it. I know he heard it. The Nashville defenseman heard it and he was standing next to Owen. His face is completely blank. The closed restaurant. He's looking at Varga, and then he's looking at me, and then he's looking at the ice.

He doesn't say anything.

He doesn't skate over to Varga. He doesn't do what he did on opening night, lean in at the faceoff and say whatever it was that made Varga stop smiling. He doesn't do anything.

He just skates to the bench.

They score on the power play. Thirty-eight seconds in. Their center walks right through the spot where I'd have been, if I'd been on the ice instead of in the box, and puts it top shelf.

Two-two.

I sit in the penalty box with my head down and listen to nineteen thousand people in Nashville cheer.

They score again in the third. We lose three to two. The streak's over.

In the room after, nobody talks. I sit in my stall with my gear still on, and I can feel the whole room not looking at me. Moretti comes in, stops at my stall, and says, "Stupid penalty," and I say, "I know," and he says, "We'll talk tomorrow," and he goes.

Then Webb sits down next to me. Right next to me, in Kowal's stall, which is empty because Kowal's already in the shower.

"I heard it," he says, quietly.

"Everybody heard it."

"I know. I'm saying I heard it. So you know." He's got his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. "It was disgusting. Somebody should've dropped the gloves on him. I'm sorry nobody did."

I look up. Sorel's standing on my other side. He doesn't say anything. He just puts his hand on my shoulder pad, and leaves it there.

Across the room, Owen's getting undressed with his back to all of us.

The reporters come in. They don't come to me first. They go to Owen.

I'm still in my stall. I can see him from here, through the forest of cameras, standing in front of his stall in a T-shirt with his hair wet.

"Owen, the incident in the second period. The microphone picked up Cody Varga using a slur toward your teammate. Did you hear it?"

I hold my breath. Come on. Come on, Owen.

He's quiet for a second too long.

"I didn't hear it," he says. "I was in the scrum. It was loud."