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"It was very clearly audible on the broadcast⁠—"

"I was focused on the play. I didn't hear anything."

"The league's already said it'll review the incident. Do you think Varga should be suspended?"

"That's up to the league."

"Rémy took a penalty that cost you the game. Was that the right response?"

Owen doesn't look over at me. He looks straight into the nearest camera.

"We need our guys to stay disciplined," he says. "Whatever gets said out there. We can't take penalties like that in a one-goal game."

Somebody next to me makes a sound. It's Sorel. He's staring at Owen like he's never seen him before.

"Last question," Priya says, from behind the cameras. Her voice sounds strange.

"Owen, do you think the league has a problem with homophobia?"

"I think," Owen says, "that I'm a hockey player, and I answer hockey questions."

Then he turns around and starts packing his bag.

They come to me next. I tell them I heard it. I tell them what it was. I don't say the word, but I tell them what it was, and I tell them I shouldn't have slashed him, and that I'm sorry to my teammates for the penalty. I tell them I've been hearing it since I was sixteen and I'll probably hear it until I'm sixty, and it doesn't matter, and I'll keep playing.

I say all of it. I don't make a single joke. For the first time since opening night, I don't make a single joke.

Webb stays next to me the whole time. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. He's got his arms crossed and he's looking at every reporter who asks a question like he's memorizing their face.

Owen's already gone.

On the bus to the hotel, my phone won't stop buzzing. Maman, six times. Luc. Guys I played juniors with. A number I don't know from Toronto. I don't open any of them.

Then my dad calls. It's not a game day. It's almost midnight. He's never called me at midnight in my life.

I answer.

"Papa?"

"I saw it." His voice is too loud, like always, but it's shaking. "On the TV. With your mother. I heard what he said."

"I'm sorry, Papa. I shouldn't have⁠—"

"Don't." He cuts me off. He never cuts me off. "Don't you say sorry. Don't you dare."

I sit there with the phone against my ear and the dark highway going by outside the window.

"I've been telling you your whole life, don't give them a reason," he says. "Keep your head down. Be careful. I thought if you were careful enough, nobody would ever say that to you." He breathes hard. "That man said it on television, Rémy. You didn't give him a reason. You were standing there. That's all. There's no careful enough."

"Papa."

"I wanted to get in the truck. Your mother had to take the keys. I was going to drive to Nashville."

I laugh. It comes out wet. "It's twenty hours, Papa."

"I know how far it is. I looked it up." He's quiet for a second. "You hit him with your stick?"

"Yeah."