I skate the line back toward our end, and I pass right under her glass. I don’t stop. I just lift the new stick once in her direction as I go by. A tip of the hat. This. Look at my new stick.
The new stick is a gift from God.
First shift, I wire a slap pass through three sets of legs and onto Theo’s tape like I threaded a needle in the dark, and the stick releases a half-tick faster than my gamer ever did, snappier, whippier, a little meaner — and I clock it immediately. I let not one molecule of it reach my face.
Mid-first, I score. Clean. No glass tap, no signature in the air, no airplane. I bury it top corner and bump Benson’s glove and skate back like it’s a Tuesday.
Second period, I find Walker tape-to-tape across the slot, a pass I had no business completing, and he one-times it home. He looks at me like I’ve personally rewritten the meaning of his life, because to a guy like Walker, a feed like that is heaven. I raise one arm, and the bench comes off its hinges.
Third period, I score again.
And now — now I can afford a gesture.
I turn toward row three after this one. I take my time about it, because the whole point is that she sees me choosing it. I lift my glove, and I point. Two fingers. Right at the new stick.
See this one? Look what you did, princess. Best thing that ever happened to me.
Then I turn and skate to the bench, grinning like an idiot. I don’t look back.
Funny how the universe works. She thought she stole something from me Friday night.
Turns out she was just clearing space.
I let myself check, once, after the boys are done mauling each other — one quick flick of the eyes up to row three.
She’s writing. Head down, phone up out of her lap now, thumbs going. Bowed over it. Writing it all down, every goal, every assist, every point I’m putting up on the back of the stick she handed me, building my case for me in my enemy’s own report.
I grin the whole way to the bench.
The locker room’s a war zone after. We won, I’m the player of the game, and Drew is standing on a bench screaming something that isn’t words.
Fuller catches me in the hallway on the way out, hand on my shoulder, that rare thing where the eyebrows aren’t doing anything sarcastic.
“Good work tonight.” He means it. “That. Right there. You’re going far, son. Keep it up.”
I changed the stick, I think.
I don’t say it. I just nod and let him believe he coached it out of me, because that’s good for him and free for me.
Percy passes me on his way to the showers.
“Better, eleven.”
I love that miserable goalie. I’d take a puck for him.
My phone goes off in my bag. My Dad. I answer.
“There he is!” He’s grinning, I can hear it. “Three points. They paying you yet, or do I have to keep feeding you?”
“Direct deposit’s the dream, old man, but the NCAA’s got opinions.”
“The NCAA can kiss my—” and he’s off, and I give it back to him. He laughs, and I laugh, and for a minute it’s just the easy thing it always is between us.
“Heard from Linwood this morning, by the way.”
Aspen’s old man. The bench boss. My father’s best friend.
“Asked how you were doing. Said that he’s been keeping tabs on you. Wanted me to pass it along. He’s proud of you, kid. Said so himself.”
