Page 25 of Home Ice

“Yes, what?” Ma asked.

“Nothing.”

“Niko.”

“It’s nothing. It’s a—I remembered something.”

“Something?” Dad asked.

“For the shop. It’s a thing for the shop tomorrow.”

Max was quiet. “You said yes about the shop with a fist?” Ma set the photograph back inside the drawer.

“There was no fist.”

“There was a fist,” Yiayia said, as she turned her attention back to her program.

“The Ironhawks won,” I said. “In Dallas. Just now. Four to three.”

“The hockey,” Ma said. “You were checking the hockey game.”

“The score. It’s public. People check scores.”

“You’ve been checking it all night.” I heard delight in Ma’s voice. “Gus, he’s a hockey fan now. He knows the numbers, the penalties—“

“It’s Max’s friend,” Dad said.

“Did the boy score?” Ma asked. “Rafe? Is that why the yes?”

“Twice, Ma.”

My phone buzzed, and everyone looked at me.

Rafe: I want to see the drawer. Thursday work?

Four people looked at me, expecting a response. “Rafe wants to see my drawer,” I said.

Chapter seven

Rafe

The tunnel smelled of cold rubber and popcorn. Trier came up the ramp behind me with his suit bag over his shoulder.

“Two assists,” he said.

“Yep.”

“No goals.”

“Nope.”

“Six games. Six games, and tonight you decide to be a passer. In Dallas. Where my sister-in-law watches.”

“I didn’t decide anything. Cross was open.”

“Cross is always open. He’s a large man who stands in good spots.” He stopped at the bus door to let a trainer through with a case of tape. “My sister-in-law will text me about this, and I have nothing to say to her.”

“Tell her I’m sorry.”