Jonah makes a soft choking noise.
I look at Isaac. "You know my plus-minus from a series seven years ago."
"I know a lot of weird stuff."
"Keep most of it inside."
He nods like I have handed him an ancient defensive secret. "Yes, sir."
"Don't call him sir," Jonah says. "It makes his hip worse."
I throw a roll of tape at Jonah. It misses by six inches because I am seated and because my hip does not appreciate rotational violence before noon. Jonah catches it anyway, because Jonah has the reflexes of a man who has spent his entire career surviving his own mouth.
Isaac laughs. Full sound. No checking the room first, no waiting to see whether laughter is allowed. He laughs likesomeone who has never had to measure joy before releasing it. It makes the locker room warmer and more dangerous.
I do not know what to do with people who arrive unarmored.
Practice starts at eleven. Isaac is fast. This is the first thing everyone notices and the thing nobody says because saying it would feel rude with me on the ice.
He skates like the game is still making promises to him. Long stride, strong outside edge, hips loose, acceleration clean through the first three steps. His first lap around the rink is easy in a way that makes my body file a formal complaint. The hip tightens as I watch him. Petty joint. It has opinions.
Callahan runs neutral-zone regroup drills. Isaac is on my left. He listens hard, stick blade flat on the ice, chin lifted, the posture of a kid who was told by every coach he ever had that attention is a skill and decided to become excellent at it.
Off the ice, he asks questions like breathing.
"Do you tape heel-to-toe because of release angle or habit?"
"Both."
"What's the worst building for visitor ice?"
"Arizona before the renovation."
"Worst hit you ever took?"
"Washington. 2015."
"Did you know it was bad right away?"
"Yes."
"Did you keep playing?"
"Yes."
"Was that stupid?"
"Yes."
He absorbs this with reverence, as if stupidity, when correctly labeled, becomes wisdom.
On the ice, he asks permission from the game.
The first time the puck comes to him at the blue line, he has space. Not much, but enough. The winger is late to pressure.The lane is there, a seam between bodies that opens and closes in less than a second. Isaac sees it. I know he sees it because his shoulders change. His weight shifts forward. The body knows before the mind gives approval.
Then the mind interferes.
He hesitates.
