Page 29 of Thin Ice

Boston played like their tape. They were heavy on the puck. Every time they lost possession, all five of them turned and hunted it down. Their defensemen jumped into the rush, exactly the way Nolan had called it two nights ago from the floor of his living room, a lacrosse ball under his hip.

They came in waves. The Steamers gave Boston the outside and slammed the door on the middle. Misha was a half-second ahead of the puck all night.

"Ward," Doyle was in my ear midway through the second period. "Northeast service corridor, door's propped. Fire watch says it's the caterers."

I moved to where I could see the corridor's mouth. A kid in catering whites wedged the door with a folding chair and hauled sheet pans. One of Doyle's men reached him while I watched. He took the wedge away and stood over the kid while he badged each trip.

The Steamers scored a goal at 8:27 in the third period.

Boston's defensemen gambled one time too many. The puck squirted loose behind them, and Jamie Loughlin was already gone. He'd been reading it for two periods, drifting a step toward open ice every time they committed.

There was nobody within thirty feet of him. He caught a pass at full speed, alone, twenty-two years old with a Cup Final on his stick. He didn't try anything cute, nailing the top corner before the goalie could set his feet.

The riverboat whistle blew, and the building erupted. The sound vibrated up through the concrete and into my boots.

On the bench, Nolan was the first one standing, banging the boards with both gloves. When Jamie came around on the flyby, Nolan leaned so far over the wall to reach him that the trainer grabbed the back of his jersey.

The minutes after the goal crawled. Boston pulled their goalie with 2:10 left, and the Steamers' coach sent Nolan over the boards for almost all of it. He won a wall battle, pinning the puck for the better part of a shift with his back taking crosschecks. Then he blocked a point shot with the good leg and lost the faceoff that gave Boston one last possession. Misha stopped the last shot with his chest and held on. Game over.

Final score one–nothing. Steamers led the series one game to none.

The team spilled over the boards to bury Misha. Nolan was the last one into the pile, gloves in the air, grinning like a kid.

***

It was past one when I keyed us in through the service entrance, and Nolan was still lit up like the third period hadn't ended.

He'd done his media, all of it, last veteran out of the room like always, and then he'd ridden home with the window cracked so the sound of downtown could reach him. Crowds celebrated outside the bars, and tug whistles blew on the river.

In the service elevator, he leaned his shoulders against the wall and closed his eyes.

"One," he said.

At his door, I went in first, the way I had every night for a week and a half. The condo looked like it did every night. The furniture was clean and the windows locked. On the table by the recliner, the lamp glowed on low, the way we'd left it.

Behind me, Nolan hung his keys on the hook by the door and headed for the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator open. "Did you know Jamie saves his tape? He tears a piece off after every game and puts it in a scrapbook. I saw him carrying a piece in a Ziploc and asked about it."

"He had a hell of a night," I said.

"Hell of a night. Wait'll he figures out he's good."

The guest room and bathroom were clean. I entered Nolan's bedroom, and the night changed.

The heating pad was running. He hadn't left it on. Nolan turned it off every morning, managing the fire risk I'd needled him about on day two.

"Nolan."

Something in how I said his name brought him down the hall fast, phone still in his hand. He stopped in the doorway beside me, saw the light on the pad, and froze.

"I didn't leave that on," he said.

"I know."

He didn't move towards it. He stood next to me and scanned the room.

"It's squared," he said. "To the edge." His voice was flat. "I don't square it. It sits wherever it lands when I pull it up in the morning. Somebody squared it."

"Yeah."