I find myself laughing at one of Shep’s ridiculous celebrations after a good goal. Actually laughing, not just tolerating.
Boone catches my eye from across the ice. Raises an eyebrow. I shrug.
When we finish, the energy in the locker room is different. Lighter. More like a team and less like a collection of individuals trying to survive their captain’s intensity.
I’m still processing that when Virgil appears in the doorway.
“Got a minute, Foster?”
Virgil doesn’t ask for minutes. Virgil dispenses cryptic wisdom whether you want it or not, usually while doing something mechanical to Sleetwood Mac. The fact that he’s requesting a conversation sets off alarm bells.
“Sure.”
I follow him out to the rink, where the Zamboni sits in patient silence. He leans against it, studying me with those disconcertingly sharp eyes.
“You’re different today.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Everyone’s right.” He crosses his arms. “Question is whether you know why.”
“I got some sleep.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Something shifted. I can see it in how you move, how you talk to the guys. You’re not strangling everything as tight as you used to.”
“Is that bad?”
“I didn’t say bad.” He pulls a rag from his pocket, starts polishing a spot on the Zamboni that’s already perfectly clean. “Just different. And difference has causes.”
I don’t respond. Virgil has a way of drawing confessions out of silence, and I’m not ready to confess anything.
“You know what I’ve learned in sixty-eight years of being alive?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “People change for two reasons: they learn something new, or they want something new.”
“And?”
“And yesterday you were wound tight enough to snap. Today you’re loose enough to laugh at Shep’s nonsense.” He meets my eyes. “That’s not learning, Foster. That’s wanting. And wanting changes people faster than knowledge ever will.”
The observation cuts deeper than it should. Because he’s right—this isn’t about emotional exercises or Post-it notes or breathing techniques. This is about Gisele. About what she makes me want, who she makes me want to be.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit.
“Nobody does.” Virgil shrugs. “Difference is whether you pretend you do or admit you’re figuring it out as you go.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple. Hard, but simple.” He tucks the rag back in his pocket. “The question isn’t whether you know what you’re doing. The question is whether you’re going to keep doing it.”
“Keep doing what?”
“Whatever put that look on your face this morning.” His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “The one that says you’ve got something worth protecting and you’re terrified of screwing it up.”
I don’t have a response. Virgil doesn’t seem to expect one—just pushes off from the Zamboni and heads toward the equipment room, leaving me standing alone with the echo of his words.
Something worth protecting.
That’s what she is. What this is. And I’m treating it that way—have been treating it that way since the moment I woke up and realized I didn’t want to compartmentalize what happened.
The drive home is quiet. I run through the day—practice, the team’s response, Virgil’s observation—trying to catalog what’s changed and why.
