“That’s the worst fake name I’ve ever heard.”
“I know.”
He shakes his head and turns back toward Zach’s door. I press the elevator button and wait. The doors open. I step in and watch Rodriguez give a knock—two quick raps, their usual pattern and Zach's muffled voice answers from inside. Rodriguez calls out, “It’s me, open up,” in a voice that sounds almost normal.
Almost.
The doors close and I ride down alone.
In the lobby I stand there and stare at the elevator doors and see my reflection—messy hair, wrinkled clothes, bag over my shoulder, a girl who just got caught.
My phone buzzes.
Zach
You forgot your other sock. It’s on Shredder’s tank.
I stare at the text. The urge to call him right now and say Rodriguez knows is suffocating. To just dump it on him and let him deal with it.
I can’t. Not today. Not when he’s about to play the biggest game of his life.
Me
Keep it. Shredder needs a blanket.
Zach
That’s disgusting.
Me
He’s a fish. He doesn’t judge.
Go win a hockey game.
I put my phone in my pocket and walk to my car. I sit behind the wheel and grip it and try to breathe.
Rodriguez knows. Barrett knows. My mom knows. The circle is expanding and I can feel the whole thing tilting toward a cliff edge and the only question is whether we jump or get pushed.
I start the car and drive home. I put on Zach’s gray hoodie—the one with the hole in the sleeve—and sit on my bed and wait.
Whatever happens on the ice tonight, everything changes tomorrow.
27
ZACH
Rodriguez is weird at breakfast.
Not weird in a way anyone else would notice, because Rodriguez has a wide spectrum of normal and most of it looks unhinged to outside observers. But I’ve been eating pre-game meals with this guy for two years. I know his rhythms the way I know shot trajectories—instinctively, without thinking about it—and today the rhythm’s off. He’s too bright. Too loud. He’s doing the Rodriguez performance, the one that plays great on camera and in locker rooms, but his eyes keep landing on me and sliding away.
“You good?” I ask him over eggs at the diner we’ve begun frequenting on game days.
“Great. Amazing. Never better.” He shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and chews aggressively. “Why wouldn’t I be good? It’s Game 7. I’m so good. I’m incredibly good.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird. This is baseline. You’re projecting your own goalie weirdness onto me because you’re the one startingtonight and your brain is looking for problems everywhere.” He points at me with his fork. “Classic deflection. I read about it.”
