Page 51 of Home Ice

3–1. Then, with ninety seconds left and their net empty, the puck found me at center ice with nobody between me and the hat trick. Everybody saw it, and the noise started early.

Varga was streaking up the far side, banging his stick on the ice.

He was, for once, genuinely open.

I passed. He buried it and threw both arms up. Then he pointed at me with his stick, skating backward, yelling something across the ice I couldn’t hear.

The crowd laughed. Nineteen thousand people, laughing at the same joke at the same time, and both benches grinning. The game was over.

The room afterward was loud. Somebody had already clipped Varga’s celebration. Trier came by my stall with his phone held out. His sister-in-law had texted a photo of herself in the Steamers jersey with her head in her hands, and under it: tell Mikkelsen I hate him. tell him nice game.

“You’ve ruined my family,” Trier said. “Congratulations on that.”

The scrum formed in the hallway, twice the size of normal, and Deckert got the first one in. “Rafe, three points, a shorthanded play, and you gave away a hat trick. Walk us through the last one.”

“Varga was open.”

The scrum laughed. Behind me, through the door, Varga’s voice: “SAY IT LOUDER.”

“HE WAS OPEN,” I said, louder, and they laughed again.

“It’s everywhere already,” Deckert said, flipping his phone around. “The nicest guy in hockey passes up his own hat trick. It fits the story people are telling about you. Farm kid comes out, plays like this, gives the goal away. Does it feel like the city’s fallen for you a little?”

Nice had nothing to do with it. Varga was open.

“It feels like we won,” I said. “Great building tonight. Great team win.”

Boring on purpose, like Varga taught me. Somebody asked if Max had been in the building, and I said he had a shoot. I told them he’d be at the gala with me next week, and the photos snapped all at once.

Cross passed behind the scrum on his way out, listened for two seconds, and said, “He made the right reads all night.”

He wasn’t completely right. I’d missed one in the first, but Cross’s version was easier to report.

After the room emptied, I sat on the bench by my stall in my suit pants and undershirt.

Mom had sent a TV shot again, my face frozen mid-shot, her thumb in the corner, and under it: Dad says the pass was the right play. He said it twice.

Then a stack of messages from Max.

Max: THE PASS

Max: do you understand what you did. the clip is everywhere. a man five feet from a hat trick says no thank you, my friend deserves this. the sports talking heads are going to weep

Max: my phone has not stopped. three outlets want us for gala coverage now. arrivals, the step and repeat, the whole show. Mark’s going to call you tomorrow and be very excited in a calm voice

Max: also hi. nice game. I watched between takes.

The step and repeat. I didn’t know what a step and repeat was. Max would tell me where to stand, and it would be fine.

Rafe: sounds good

I put the phone away, grabbed my coat, and turned off the lights on my way out.

The truck was cold. I started it and let it warm, before pulling out of the garage and turning left toward home.

The drive home from the arena was twelve minutes long. I knew every light. Somewhere around the fourth one, the truck made a wrong turn. I let it happen.

The streets after that were smaller and darker. A guy walked a dog in a coat down the street. Soon, old brick buildings pushed up close to the sidewalk on either side.