“Dante, this is Odin Clark,” Nicky said. “My new boss. He’s a huge hockey fan, and since Jen and I split—” He shrugged. “Figured he’d appreciate the ticket.” I immediately felt guilty I hadn’t asked Nicky how his new job was going.
Odin extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Dante. Nicky talks about you constantly. Congratulations on the trade. Denver’s lucky to have you.”
His grip was firm, professional. His smile was friendly. I forgot everything as the team came on.
I watched the opening face-off from the suite, my mom clutching my arm like she could somehow protect me through proximity even though I wasn’t on the ice. The puck dropped, and Chicago came out aggressive—the same forechecking intensity they’d brought to game one, but sharper now, more desperate. They were up 1-0 in the series, and they wanted to make it 2-0 before we remembered we could fight back.
“Why are they all chasing the same man?” my mom asked, as three Chicago players converged on Keegan in the corner.
“That’s forechecking, Ma. They’re trying to force a turnover.”
“It looks violent.”
“It is violent. That’s kind of the point.” My dad understood. He’d been the one that took me to every junior practice even before I’d gotten into tryouts, but she’d gotten a second job to pay for all my shit. She didn’t have a job at all now, I thought with some satisfaction.
She made a disapproving sound but didn’t let go of my arm.
The first period was tight, neither team giving an inch, every puck battle contested like it was game seven instead of game two. I found myself calling plays in my head before they developed, reading the ice from the suite the way I’d been reading it from the bench. Max won a crucial face-off in the defensive zone. Taz made a save that had Anthony jumping up and down. Cole took a hit that made my mom gasp and me wince in sympathy.
“Is he okay?” she asked as Cole got back up.
“He’s fine. That was clean.”
“Clean? Dante, that man just—”
“Clean means legal, Ma. Within the rules.”
“Your rules are barbaric.”
Marco leaned over. “She said the same thing when you started playing.”
“I remember,” I said.
Chicago scored first, eight minutes into the period. A deflection off Ash’s stick that changed direction just enough to beat Taz high glove side. The building erupted. My mom’s grip on my arm tightened to the point of cutting off circulation.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Plenty of game left.”
But my stomach was doing complicated things, because being down 2-0 in a series was much harder than being down 1-0, and I was sitting in a VIP suite instead of being on the ice where I could actually help.
The second period was when things got interesting.
Max scored first—a beautiful wrist shot from the slot that went bar down so fast their goalie didn’t even move. The suite erupted. Anthony screamed. My mom actually jumped. Marco and Nicky were on their feet, and even Odin Clark was clapping with what looked like genuine enthusiasm.
“Did you see that?” my mom said, turning to me with her face flushed. “Did you see what your captain did?”
“I saw, Ma.”
“That was incredible. How do they move so fast? How do they know where to go?”
“Years of practice,” I said. “And some of them are just—they see the game differently. Like Max. He reads plays three steps ahead of everyone else.”
She studied the ice with new appreciation. “Like chess.”
“Exactly like chess. Except with knives on your feet and people trying to hit you.”
“Still barbaric,” she said, but she was smiling.
The game stayed tied through the second. Both teams trading chances, the intensity ratcheting up with every shift. I watched Kincaid behind the bench—his posture, his hand signals, the way he leaned in to say something to Max during a TV timeout that made Max nod once and skate back out with renewed purpose.
