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Halvorsen says a few words. Then he looks at me.

I take out my phone. I open the Notes app. There's a note at the top that's been there for six days, one line, My name is Theo Lindqvist. I finished it last night at four in the morning on Wes's floor.

I read it.

"My name is Theo Lindqvist. Last April, in the third period of the conference final, I hit Nico Kovač from behind. He has two cracked vertebrae and will never play hockey again. I want to say first, and I want it to be clear: that was my choice. I saw his numbers. I had time. I could have done something else. I didn't. Nobody pushed me into him. That's on me, and it always will be."

The room's dead quiet.

"Before the third period that night, my coach at Harrow, Ray Marrack, came to my stall and told me to take their best defenceman out of the series. He didn't tell me how. He knew he didn't have to. I was twenty and on a scholarship he could pull whenever he wanted, and he knew exactly what I'd do. Afterward, when Harrow released me, Coach Marrack told the media he had zero tolerance for that kind of play. Last week, he said on television that I acted alone."

I look up from my phone.

"I didn't act alone. I acted. But I wasn't alone."

I look back down.

"I'm not saying this to make what I did smaller. It isn't smaller. I'm saying it because Coach Marrack has been threatening players at Harrow this week, because of me. He's told them they'll lose their scholarships if they talk about last season. Seven of my former teammates have decided they don't want to be scared anymore. They've given statements to the conference. I'm grateful to them, and I'm sorry they had to."

My voice cracks. I let it.

"I'm sorry to Nico. I'll be sorry for the rest of my life. And I'm sorry to the people at Graymoor who had every reason to hate me this year, and who let me be on their team anyway."

I put the phone down.

"That's all," I say.

For a second, nobody moves. Then thirty people start talking at once.

They ask a lot of questions. I don't remember most of them. Do you have proof? Have you spoken to Coach Marrack? Why now? What does Nico Kovač have to say about it?

That last one, Nico leans down to the microphone.

"Nico Kovač," he says, "has been texting Theo since August, and Theo sends him pictures of a fish named Walter. Next question."

Somebody laughs.

By six o'clock, it's everywhere.

Some of it's good. The national hockey site runs it as the lead story, Former Harrow Player Alleges Coach Ordered Hit, with a picture of Marrack at the regional sports desk. Two former Harrow players I've never met, guys who graduated years ago, post that something similar happened to them. A reporter in Detroit says Harrow's AD has no comment at this time.

Some of it's not.

Three guys I played with at Harrow post that I'm a rat. That I'm lying to save myself. One of them was my linemate for half a season. He sat next to me in the room before the third period. He was there.

And at seven-fifteen, Halvorsen forwards me an email.

Erik—Following recent developments, our organization feels it's best to step back from any further discussions regarding Theo Lindqvist at this time. We wish him well. —Mark Duvall

I read it twice. Then I put the phone face down on the bench.

I knew. I knew it would cost something.

It still feels like the floor's gone out from under me.

Practice is at seven-thirty that night, a light skate before Game 3.

I'm the last one in the room. I come in through the side door with my bag on my shoulder and my head down, and I stop.