Page 52 of Home Ice

It was almost eleven when I slowed and parked at the curb in front of Niko’s shop. The apartment above was dark, but down in the shop, behind the storefront glass, the light was on. Blinds were pulled.

I sat with my hands on the wheel.

He was up.

Chapter twelve

Niko

The Ravenswood shelves didn’t need oil at eleven o’clock at night. They would need oil eventually, and I couldn’t sleep.

Before wiping down the first board, I propped my phone against the tool tray. The Ironhawks game was on it.

I watched the game from the anthem to the end. It was worth it.

The second goal was the one they’d replay tomorrow. It was a shot by Rafe that bounded off the crossbar. It was perfect for highlight reels.

The most unforgettable to me happened in the last minute. Their net was empty. Rafe had the puck at center ice with a perfect opportunity for a hat trick, and he passed to Varga.

Chet, the announcer, nearly wept. “I’ve been calling this game for twenty years,” he said, “and that is the kindest thing I have ever seen a young man do.” I saw it differently.

I finished the board, capped the oil, and was reaching for the lights when I heard a knock on the door.

It was a single knock. That ruled out Max.

I wiped my hands and crossed the shop. Rafe stood on the other side of the glass, coatless in February, with his hands shoved in his pants pockets.

I opened the door. Rafe entered on a wave of cold air, already talking.

“I know it’s late,” he said. “I was driving home and the truck sort of—your light was on. Did you see the game?”

He wore his suit, jacket open without a tie, and took three steps forward before pivoting to check out the shop. “Did you see it?”

“Yes, I watched it on my phone.”

“You saw their guy then,” he said. “Their weak-side D. He’d been jumping the lane all night—no, not all night, that’s the whole point, he stayed home the first shift, so we ran the bump like normal, and then second shift he jumped it and I was late, I was watching their center, and Coach Markel said I wouldn’t be late twice, and then—“ He took a breath. “Third shift, he jumped it again.”

“And you weren’t late.”

“No, I timed it right. His hips turned. The door was just—open. The guy had to pick between Varga and me, and he picked Varga. You don’t pick Varga. Varga’s screaming for the puck, and a guy screaming is a decoy—“

“He screams anyway,” I said. “Doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but it works out.” Rafe raked a hand through his hair. “Far post. It hit the post and went in. And the sound, Niko. There’s a sound when it goes in off the post that’s better than a clean goal, that clink.”

“Like a wrench on a pipe,” I said.

He looked at me. “That’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“Does it sound like that when you watch it?” I asked.

“It does. Did you watch the whole game?”

“Yes, and there’s this announcer named Chet,” I said. “I know so much more now. I know what weak-side means now.”

Rafe stared at me.

“I’ve been watching.”