Page 54 of Omega’s Forward

I could take her up on it. Instead I follow Belanger down, because I really need to get this signed off and bolting out of a service exit is not going to be a good look.

The corridor outside the dressing room smells of rubber and sweat and tape, and then of alpha — a whole hallway of alpha. I breathe through my mouth. It doesn’t help. I find the woodsmoke in it before I ever see him.

When they see us, they come off the ice in twos and threes, helmets off, soaked, enormous.

Callahan comes off the ice last.

Wet hair, helmet under one arm, tape hanging off one wrist, deep in some conversation with JP Tremblay — and then not, because he has seen me. He checks for half a stride. Then he keeps coming, and his face shuts, and he walks past eight feet away from me like I am a rack of chairs.

I keep my eyes off of him and make sure that my breathing is even. Still, the whole time I know exactly where he is behind me, the same way you know where the sun is with your eyes shut.

His scent hits me like a freight train. Woodsmoke over clean sweat, twice as strong coming off the ice, and my body reacts far too quickly. My mouth waters.

Sacco is at the tunnel mouth with his arms crossed. He gives me a nod that would look neutral to anybody else.

“Mr. Rourke.”

“Coach. I understood the building would be empty.”

“Yeah,” he says, not sounding sorry about it. “I heard that too.” Then he looks past me at Belanger and takes his time about it.

Belanger doesn’t wait. He wades in — handshakes, first names, a word for everybody. He knows Marchetti’s college and Ozzy’s junior team, and inside three minutes the noise has changed pitch. Whatever else the man is, he is good at this.

I keep my eyes on Belanger. It helps about as much as the mouth-breathing did.

Of course Tremblay notices. He is propped against the glass stripping the tape off his stick, and I watch him watch Callahan not look at me, and then watch me not look at Callahan.

He catches my eye for half a second, perfectly friendly, then nods. I would rather he glared.

Callahan looks good. I wish he didn’t.

Belanger puts his hand out to him. “And the man himself.” The handshake, then the shoulder. “Four games for putting Cade Dorn in the third row. Hell of a bargain.” He turns to the group, grinning.

The hallway laughs. Most of it. Marchetti’s smile takes a moment to arrive. Callahan’s face doesn’t move at all. Sacco grunts.

Then Belanger claps him on the shoulder twice and time feels like it stops.

I watched my father do that. On the last night of his life, my father clapped his shoulder, beaming.

Inside an hour, Belanger has produced an identical gesture. You cannot hire your way out of a religion.

And that’s what this sport is. It’s religion to the players and the fans. I was never a devotee.

Nobody in this hallway needs me. That is the other thing I understand, standing there with my folder while Belanger starts a story about a bench-clearer in ninety-six.

The papers are signed. Belanger is hired, and the room already likes him better than it ever liked me.

The coach has his roster and the captain has his C.

I make the goodbyes a man makes. Belanger gives me the double handshake. Sacco nods at a spot to the left of my head. Callahan stands half out of his gear with his back to me, saying something to Ozzy, and does not turn around, and I look at the back of his neck one second longer than I have any excuse for.

Then I take the freight elevator after all.

The woodsmoke comes with me. In my clothes, in my throat, down the parking level and into the car.

17. Brody

Their winger sees me coming and gets rid of the puck, which is the smartest thing anybody in a red sweater has done all night.