Page 2 of Puck You Both

As he skates away, I catch the corner of his mouth doing something that on a normal person would be a smile. On him it's probably a muscle spasm.

I hope it's a muscle spasm.

Regulation solves nothing. Overtime solves nothing. Which means we go to a shootout, which means the entire game collapses down to the two of us standing at opposite ends of the ice doing the only thing either of us has ever cared about proving we're better at.

Ace scores on him first. Then Patrick stones Groover and I stop one of their first two shooters and now it's Moreau, their last shot, skating in on me with that too-many-teeth grin like he's already celebrating.

He dekes. He dekes again. He's fast and he's shifty, but he telegraphs his release with his bottom hand, which I know because I watch film like it's a religious obligation, and when he finally shoots far side I'm already there and the puck hits my glove with the sound of a door closing.

Moreau screams at the sky. I permit myself one (1) internal smile.

Then Petrov skates in on Patrick, does absolutely nothing fancy, and slides it through his five-hole like a mail slot.

Five-hole.

Poetry.

The Wolves bench empties in my direction, which is the one downside of winning: physical affection. Becker reaches me first and attempts to climb onto my back like I'm a rental horse, and I keep skating, because acknowledging him would only encourage the behavior. He rides me for half a lap anyway, narrating into an imaginary microphone. Petrov is shouting his word of the day at the Milwaukee crowd, which today is apparently "TRIUMPHANT." Jinx refuses to touch anyone until everyone has touched him in the right order. Standard procedure.

Ace fishes the game-winning puck out of Patrick's net, a move of breathtaking disrespect that I respect breathtakingly, and hands it to me in the line. "For the collection."

I collect important pucks. Everyone knows this. I have a shelf. The shelf is organized chronologically, then by significance, and I will not be taking questions about the system.

This puck goes on the shelf. This puck is Patrick Grześkowiak getting beaten five-hole in his own building. This puck might get its own shelf.

***

BECAUSE I’M ANNOUNCED the First Star (obviously), and because the press room is occupied by Coach Berg scrambling to explain to Milwaukee fans why their team sucks, I get shuffled off to do a media piece from the arena's video room. It's a small dark space up a back hallway, a couple of monitors, a camera on a tripod, and a woman with a headset.

The interviewer asks the obligatory questions (the game, my reads, the season, the do you want to talk about the hair) and then leans in for the one she clearly thinks is clever.

"Do you think the red threw Grześkowiak off tonight?"

I consider the question with the seriousness it deserves, which is none. "You would have to ask him why he opened his five-hole," I say. "I have theories. They are unkind."

She laughs. Behind me, on the monitor, the broadcast feed is still frozen on the replay: Patrick, sprawled, the puck already past him, his glove a half-second too late and a foot too short. I find the backdrop tasteful. I'd frame it if I could.

The interview wraps. I unclip the mic, wrestle the earpiece cable out of my collar, and walk out, past a hallway, stairs, more hallway and a janitor who does a double-take, down to the loading bay where the bus idles.

Half the team's already on, and Becker is doing a dramatic reenactment of the game, and I do my standard pocket inventory. Phone, wallet, keys, puck—

Puck.

No puck.

I stop at the loading bay and run the tape. Media room. Shelf by the door. I set it down when I was fighting the cables.

Leaving without it is not an option. That puck is evidence. That puck is the physical proof that Patrick Grześkowiak opened like a saloon door in his own barn, and if I leave it here, some Vipers equipment guy finds it, and it goes in a bucket with forty practice pucks, and my victory gets democratized. Absolutely not.

I drop my gear, tell the bus driver two minutes, which is a lie, and jog back.

***

THE ARENA'S MOSTLY dark by now, ushers gone, concourse lights at half power, the kind of quiet that makes every footstep sound like an event. I retrace the hallway without much trouble and find the door sitting open about a foot, the room behind it lit only by the dull blue glow of the monitor, still frozen on the same replay.

Good. Nobody's cleaned it out yet.

I push the door open wider, see the puck sitting exactly where I left it on the shelf just inside, and reach for it.