Page 48 of On His Team

Rowan: That’s still a text.

My grin gets worse, which is stupid. It isn’t like we’re saying anything.

Me: Good night, Rowan.

I wait a little longer than I need to before putting my phone down.

The next morning starts at seven and somehow does not stop. We’re at the rink before nine for a seven o’clock game. Donovan runs skates through the sharpener while I stage them. We hang the whites. I tape. I restock stalls. I fix little problems before they become bigger ones.

By the fourth stall, I stop checking my sheet for Blue.

Then Stanley.

Then Benson.

Then Mackey.

Then Rowan.

I know what they use.

Apparently, I’ve been paying attention at home games without realizing how much.

The building gets louder as the day goes on.

By warmups, it is insane.

Minnesota fans boo Camden for existing.

They boo Percy when he skates onto the ice. They boo Benson. They even boo Coach. There’s a section behind the bench that has apparently waited for this moment.

I stand in the tunnel with spare tape in one pocket and a stick beside me and think this might be the greatest building I’ve ever been inside.

Rowan comes off near the end of warmups and stops.

“You got white?”

I pull the roll from my pocket and hand it over.

He takes it, looks toward the ice, then back at me. “Told you.”

“Told me what?” I ask, confused, not sure what he’s talking about.

He looks forward. “It’s a good one.”

I look toward the student section, where several hundred people are currently informing Percy that he sucks.

I grin. “They’re assholes.”

“Yeah.”

“I like them.”

The corner of his mouth moves. “Figured.” Then he goes.

The game is ugly almost immediately. Minnesota is big, fast, and relentless. They don’t do anything especially clever. They just keep arriving.

By the middle of the first, I understand why Aspen spent so much time talking about getting Camden out of its own zone cleanly.