Page 147 of Rookie Rules

"Again," he called.

Luca circled back to center.

The play still worked.

It did not prove they had been wrong.

It was proof that losing something did not always destroy its shape.

Sometimes the body remembered where to send the puck after the heart had been told there was nowhere else to go.

Chapter 23: Line Without Language

Rowan sharpened his skates before every home game, although Cal Mercer had repeatedly told him that sharpening skates was why the Wolves employed Cal Mercer.

The machine gave Rowan a sequence he could control. Lock the blade into the holder. Set the hollow. One pass, then another. Check the edges beneath his thumb.

At four thirty, the equipment room smelled of steel and hot dust. The game waited three hours away. The conversation in the parking level waited less than twelve hours behind him.

Now the rules have what they were built for. Nothing.

Rowan tested the right edge. Perfect.

"You planning to take my job?" Cal asked from the doorway.

"Your job has too much conversation."

"True. Also dental coverage."

Cal crossed to the stick rack and studied Rowan without making the inspection obvious. Everyone around a hockey team became skilled at reading what players tried to conceal. The trick was giving them an explanation easier to accept than the truth.

"Hip?" Cal asked.

"Fine."

"That word should be illegal in this room."

"Available," Rowan corrected.

Cal's mouth flattened. Available was not fine, and both men knew it. But availability belonged to medical staff, not equipment managers, so Cal lifted his hands and let Rowan keep the distinction.

Routine carried Rowan through warmup. Tape. Stretch. Activation. The first lap beneath the arena lights.

Luca entered the ice behind Finn and accelerated past both of them with two hard crossovers. He wore his usual expression for the crowd: alive, amused, built for the attention. He banked a puck off the boards, caught it on his backhand, and shot in stride.

The puck hit the crossbar.

Normally Luca would have looked for Rowan after a miss like that. Not for approval. For argument. His raised eyebrow would ask whether the choice had been wrong or merely unsuccessful, and Rowan would answer with the angle of his stick.

Luca collected another puck without looking toward him.

Professional distance was not cold. Cold would have required Luca to direct something at him.

This was absence performed with perfect manners.

In the room, Vale reviewed the opponent's aggressive weak-side pinch. The opening would be behind the defenseman if Northstar could move the puck low to high before the second forechecker arrived.

"Hale line," Vale said. "You know the read."