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"Good," my dad says. "Next time, hit him harder."

He hangs up. It was four minutes. Not eight. I look at the call log.

He's in the room when I get to the hotel. Room 1508. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, the one by the door, fully dressed, with his elbows on his knees. Like he's been waiting. Like he's been sitting there since he got here.

I close the door behind me. I don't put my bag in the middle of the floor. I put it by the door, where it goes. Rule four.

He looks at it. Then he looks at me.

"Rémy," he says.

"You heard it."

He doesn't say anything.

"You were right there. The defenseman you were holding heard it. The linesman heard it. Everybody watching on TV heard it. You were closer than any of them."

"I know."

"You told them you didn't hear it."

"I know."

"You told them I needed to stay disciplined." My voice cracks on the last word. I hate that. "You stood in front of every camera in Nashville and said I was the problem."

"That's not what I⁠—"

"That's what they heard. That's what everybody heard." I'm still standing by the door. I can't make myself come any farther into the room. "Webb heard it. Webb sat down next to me and said somebody should have dropped the gloves. Sorel put his hand on my shoulder. Webb, Owen. Webb's been married to a woman for fifteen years, he's never said a word about any of this, and he sat down next to me in front of the whole room."

Owen puts his face in his hands.

"If I'd said something," he says, into his palms, "they'd have asked why."

"Webb said something. Nobody asked him why."

"It's different."

"How?"

He takes his hands away from his face and looks at me, and his eyes are red, and he doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. We both know how it's different.

Webb doesn't have anything to hide.

"He said your boyfriend," I say, quieter now. "Before the word. He said, your boyfriend's got a nice grip. He said everybody's seen how you look at me on the bench."

Owen goes white.

"That's why you didn't say anything," I say. "Because he said it about you, too. Not just me."

"Rémy—"

"It's okay." It's not okay. I say it anyway. "I understand. I do. I get it. You're scared. You were scared at twenty with Danny, and you're scared now, and I understand."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are."

I cross the room. Not to him. To my bed. I sit down on the edge of it, facing him, the gap between us the width of the nightstand. The same as the first night in Denver, when he gave me the list.