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"Yes."

He nods, slowly. He doesn't look at me. He looks at the back of the seat in front of him.

"Then why'd you say⁠—"

"I don't know."

"You know."

I don't answer. The plane hits a little turbulence and shudders, and somebody in the back yells, "Whoa!" and a couple of guys laugh.

"I'm not going to ask you why," Webb says finally. "I told you in Toronto. I'm not going to ask you anything you're not ready to tell me." He turns his head. "But he's going to need to know why, Owen. Not me. Him. He's going to need a better answer than I don't know."

He gets up and goes back to the fourth row.

I look out the window for the rest of the flight. Clouds. More clouds. I count power plays in my head, the way I did as a kid to fall asleep, and it doesn't work. I don't turn my head once. I know exactly where Rémy's sitting, in the back, next to Sorel, and I don't look.

The league suspends Varga four games the next morning. Nadia sends me the press release with a message that says Call me, and three exclamation points, and then another message that says Actually don't call me, come to my office.

I don't go to Nadia's office. I go to Moretti's.

He's at his desk eating a sandwich over a napkin. He looks up when I come in and doesn't look surprised.

"Close the door," he says.

I close it. I don't sit down.

"I heard it," I say.

He puts the sandwich down.

"In Nashville. What Varga said. I was in the scrum. I heard every word."

"I know you did," Moretti says. "I watched the tape. You were four feet from him."

"I told the press I didn't."

"I know that too. I've seen it about forty times since last night. So has Pruitt. So has half the league." He wipes his fingers on the napkin, one at a time. "Why'd you do it?"

"I panicked."

"Owen Hale doesn't panic. I've been watching you play hockey since you were nineteen years old. I've seen you take a slapshot to the face and finish your shift. You don't panic."

"I did this time."

He looks at me for a long time, the way he does, like he's waiting for the rest of it. I don't give it to him.

"I want the team to put out a statement," I say. "About the slur. Not from me. From the team. From the organization. That we stand behind him. That what Varga said has no place in this league."

"Nadia's already drafting one."

"I want my name on it."

He raises his eyebrows.

"As captain," I say. "I want it to say the captain stands behind him."

Moretti leans back in his chair. It creaks. He looks at the ceiling for a moment, and then he looks at me.