“I’m so–”
“Don’t.” I pick up my glove off the floor. “Don’t apologize for that. Not for that. I stepped in front of your dad on purpose.”
She goes up on her toes and kisses the corner of my mouth. “Win,” she says into my jaw. “Please.”
I skate out,tap both posts, and drop into my stance. The crowd is roaring, but the noise doesn't reach me.
When the puck drops, I make the first save purely on muscle memory—short side, glove, clean—and the crowd noise finally hits me half a second after the whistle.
The first period is quiet on the ice. My defense is moving, but nobody’s calling anything. No sticks tapping the ice to signal a switch, no voices directing traffic. I’m running my own crease entirely blind.
They score on a rebound when I kick the first shot into traffic. The puck sits at Jack’s feet for half a second, but he doesn't react, and someone else buries it before I can reset. 1-0.
During intermission I sit in my stall with my mask on the bench. Rodriguez and Brody drop down on either side of me without speaking. Nobody says Jack’s name. Barrett walks through with his clipboard and doesn't even stop.
In the second period, their winger carries up the right side with speed. Our defense shifts wrong and Jack is closest to the play, so I call his name the same way I have a thousand times.
"Anderson. Middle."
He doesn’t turn his head.
The winger cuts in and puts it glove side before I can get a piece of it. 2-0.
Rodriguez manages to score on a breakaway late in the period, making the building sound like itself for just a second, but they answer two minutes later. I don’t even see the puck until it’s past my pad. 3-1 going into the third.
I make fourteen saves in the final period, but none of them matter. With three minutes left, their center gets a clean look and buries it to make it 4-1.
The locker roomhas a silence I’ve never heard before. Nobody is looking at Jack. Nobody is looking at me. Rodriguez is stripping his gear with unusual care, like each piece of tape might explode in his hands.
I don’t shower. I pack up and walk to the parking garage in my suit with sweaty hair. I get to my car and sit for a minute in the silence before punching the steering wheel once, hard.
The passenger door opens and Rodriguez drops into the seat without a word and drops his head back against the headrest.
“Bro… that was,” he whistles.
“So now her dad knows.”
“Yeah.” Rodriguez exhales. “I figured that out when he tried to go through you in a hallway.”
“He wasn’t going through me.”
“Z.” Rodriguez turns his head. “I fucking told you he was going to snap. You told him no. In front of six guys.”
“Seven.”
“Seven guys. Fine.” He drags a hand down his face. “That was the single most unhinged thing I have ever seen you do.”
“I’d do it again.”
“I know you would, you crazy bastard.”
We sit for a while.
“Go home,” he finally says. “Sleep. Eat something. Text Mackie. Game 2’s in two days.”
36
MACKIE
