Page 53 of Thin Ice

Elias brought us up out of the Landing and back onto the flat street grade. At a red light, he reached into the side pocket of his work bag, between the seats. He pulled out a charging cable and plugged his phone into the console without looking at it. His eyes never stopped moving. He caught everything: a person in the crosswalk, a van idling in front of the dry cleaner, and someone carrying a McDonald's bag down the sidewalk.

We still beat most of the rest of the time. Jamie was on the ice, snapping pucks at the far net. Not the top corner this time. He was working the ice low, blocker side, six inches off the post, over and over.

He'd watched the same tape I had, and he worked the goalie's cheat into muscle memory. I skated past behind the net.

"Subtle," I said.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Neither will he," I said, "if you look somewhere else first."

Jamie grinned and lined up another puck. I carried on down the boards for another lap around the rink.

***

Game-day afternoons are the hardest hours of a hockey player's week. You get back from the skate by noon, the game's at seven, and the seven hours in between require a disciplined schedule.

Eat at one. Down at two. Up at four. You set a schedule and you obey it because an idle afternoon is how a man beats himself before anybody drops the puck.

Elias sat at the island with his laptop, and I ate the pasta that the service marked GAME DAY in block letters. Brick texted at one-thirty. It was a photo and no message.

Maddie'd baked a cake, and it sat on their kitchen counter with five candles planted in it. She'd piped a paddlewheel across the top in blue.

While I was admiring it, she texted me herself.

Maddie: five candles. one per game. don't make me have to buy seven.

Nolan: Are you doubting us?

Maddie: I'm managing expectations.

I set the phone down and caught Elias watching me. I turned the photo around so that he could see it.

"That's a good cake," he said.

"She likes baking. Said if we made the Final she'd do the Wheel." I looked at it. "I don't have hands that steady."

"You're proud of this."

"I'm allowed that. I'm the fun gay uncle. I taught her nothing, but I'm taking full credit."

I went down at two, like the schedule said. Lying on top of the covers with the shades drawn, I managed thirty-five minutes asleep. On a Cup Final afternoon, that counts as a minor miracle.

At four I got up and started getting ready: shower and the suit. Elias stood in the hall watching the last of it, me tightening my tie in the mirror by the door.

"There he is," he said.

"Who?"

"The guy from the posters. I think I like the other one best, for the record."

"The other one can't win a face-off."

"Sure he can, and he can do it in sneakers." Elias laughed to himself as he picked up his keys.

The building was loud well before game time. They crowd started standing during warmups. By the anthem, the walls vibrated.

The first period ran nothing-nothing, and the noise never settled. A crowd usually breathes, swelling on a rush, dropping to a hush on a penalty call.