Page 11 of Home Ice

I laid it all out for him. He listened. He’d listened like that since I was sixteen, when he drove four hours to sit in our kitchen while my dad asked him the same question five ways.

“Okay,” he said when I finished. “First, the mechanics of this are fine. This kind of thing is more common than people think. The paper’s clean, and the walk-away clause means what it says. If it ever stops working, you text me one word, and it’s over by lunch. That’s the easy part.”

“And the hard part?”

A drawer closed. “Here’s the part I care about. Do you want to do this?”

“It makes sense for everybody—“

“That’s not what I asked. I know it makes sense. I’d say no if it didn’t. I’m asking if you want to do it.”

The heater fan hummed. A door clicked somewhere across the garage.

“Honestly? I think it’ll be fun,” I said. “I’ve never gotten to just—go out, you know? In juniors I couldn’t, and this fall I’ve been keeping my head down. This way I get dinners with a guy Mark says is great, the team stops worrying about my quiet phone, and nobody’s waiting on me to have a personal life. It kind of fixes everything.”

There was a brief silence on Hal’s end.

“Well,” he said. “That’s a better answer than I usually get. I’ll pass your number to Max’s people. Expect chaos. I’ve heard he texts like a man being billed for silent hours.”

I laughed.

“All right. I’ll mark up the paper today. A few things that we insist don’t change: nothing exclusive about appearances, nothing that touches hockey scheduling, and if that photographer’s ever anywhere near your building instead of a restaurant, it’s over.”

“Deal.”

“Proud of you, Rafe. Yesterday, I mean. The rest of it, too, but yesterday.” He hung up before I could say anything else.

Before I could put the truck in drive, my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: this is Max. I’ve been told you’re a real person and not a PR rendering

Hal had apparently sent my cell number while we were still talking. I typed a response.

Max: dinner tonight. I have QUESTIONS about Saskatchewan. multiple. numbered

I laughed out loud.

I saved the contact and texted back:

Rafe: what’s question one

Max: how many cows. be exact

***

I took my usual afternoon nap. When I woke up, I read the team chat.

Trier had posted a photo of a parking ticket.

Trier: $75. My own arena.

Cross: you parked in the media spots again.

Trier: the media parks in OUR spots. this is a war and I’m recruiting soldiers for my side.

Further down, Varga organized our night in Denver without asking anyone.

Varga: after the game we’re going to the Rickhouse. I checked the flight, we don’t leave till noon. Denver is a mile up and one beer works like three. Plan accordingly.