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“Nash. You good? You eating?”
“I’m eating.”
“Good. So listen, I’m coming.” He’s in the truck. I can hear the blinker.
Something in my chest moves. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. I got out of the Saturday shift, Denny’s covering, so I’ll be on the road by noon and there way before puck drop. Got a room at that place off the highway with the waffle thing in the lobby.”
“The waffle thing.”
“You love the waffle thing.”
“I’m not nine anymore.”
“You loved it, bud.” He laughs. “First exhibition. Second line. Center. At a program like that. You know what that is?”
“It’s an exhibition. It doesn’t count.”
“Everything counts, Nash. They’re all watching what you do when it doesn’t count.” The truck noise changes. “Hey. Listen to me. First ten minutes tomorrow, don’t chase it.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. I’m saying it anyway. Everybody’s going to come out of their skin for the first ten, because it’s the first one with a crowd. Let them run around like idiots. You find the game first. Find your feet, find your wingers, take what they give you. Then go get it.”
He’s right. That’s exactly what happens in a first one, and exactly what to do about it, and nobody on the staff will say it better.
“Yeah,” I say.
“How are the draws?”
“Better on my strong side. Still losing the ones off the wall.”
“Hands lower. You get tall when you’re mad.” He says it easily, and he isn’t wrong about that either. “Who’s your third line?”
“Greeley.”
“Any good?”
“He’s good on draws.”
“Huh,” Dad says. “Learn something off him, then.”
I don’t say anything.
“Anyway.” I hear him take the exit. “I’m looking forward to seeing you. Been too long.”
My hand is on my side, over my shirt, and my skin feels too tight there, so I take it off and put it flat on the desk.
“Anybody else coming?” he says. “You got people?”
Kylie in that seat behind our bench, three or four rows up, where I can see her.
“Koda’s parents are coming,” I say.
“Koda’s the winger. Good. It’s nice when there’s people.” A pause. “You need anything? Tape? Money?”
“I’m good, Dad.”
