He goes completely still before every shot.
Like the whole rink pauses around him.
Then he moves.
And it’s a lot.
I pick up my work notebook and force myself to write something useful.
Read it back.
Technically accurate. Completely dead.
Because what I want to write is that there is something unnerving about a man who wastes that little. That every movement of his looks chosen. That it is extremely inconvenient to be this aware of someone before I even know his name.
Instead I close the notebook.
Wrong thought process. Wrong century. Wrong profession.
I finish the morning. Pack up my recorder, my work notebook, the backup pen that rolled under the table, camera back in the bag.
Thorough.
Professional.
Almost at the door, I stop.
Open the personal notebook.
Write three lines.
The man in the dress shirt.
The way he fought for nothing and still somehow made losing look deliberate.
Rock-paper-scissors. I won.
I stare at the page.
Wrong notebook.
I cross the lines out hard enough to score the paper.
I’m almost at the door for the second time when I remember the roster. Standard prep. I’ve got some of them down, but all the faces need names before tomorrow.I sit back down. Open my laptop. Pull up the team page.
Forwards. Defense. Name, position, number, face.
I move through it quickly.
Then the goalie.
Standard team photo. Jersey. Neutral expression.
I stare at the screen.
No.
No way.
