Page 89 of Slapshot Baby

He sets the fork down, stares into the distance. He looks so sad that I know I have to do something about it. Maybe playing with Biscuit will loosen him up.

“Watch this,” I say.

I set my plate down and slide off the couch onto the floor. Biscuit's ears perk.

"Biscuit. Tricks."

Biscuit leaps to attention. Her ears go up, her body rigid with focus. I grab a treat from the bag on the coffee table and hold it up.

"Spin."

She spins. I toss her the treat.

"Shake."

She offers her paw. Another treat.

"Play dead."

She hurls herself onto the floor with a theatrical flop, one ear covering her eye, tongue out, paw curled.

“Go to him,” I say, pointing to Kai.

Biscuit recovers from her death scene and trots over to Kai, shoving her nose under his hand.

He scratches behind her ear and starts making her do tricks. It doesn’t take long before he’s sitting on the floor beside me, teaching her new commands. By the time he’s done, his shoulders are no more sagging and the eyes in his eyes have returned.

"Brennan put me on long-term injured reserve," he finally admits.

"When?"

"Last week. He didn't tell me until today. Let me suit up, get on the ice, skate with the team. Then pulled me off the ice."

"In front of everyone?"

"In front of everyone I've captained for years I can't remember." His hand stills on Biscuit's head. "My medical clearance wasn't enough. He thinks the amnesia makes me a liability."

I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them.

"What exactly did he say?"

"That four years of game knowledge missing makes me unfit for live play. That minutes of drills aren't a game." His voice is too controlled, each word placed like he's bridling his temper. "I ran every system he threw at me today, read every play before it developed, beat Wyatt twice in a footrace. But it wasn't enough."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

The position brings his face closer to mine. I can see the pulse in his neck, the slight dilation of his pupils.

"I've been playing since I was four," he says. "The first time, my dad flooded the backyard in winter because the rinks were booked solid with league games. The ice was never thick enough. I skated on frozen grass until the ice cracked and I fell through into mud.”

“Mud?”

“Yeah. It was two inches of cold dirt. My dad picked me up and said, 'Try again tomorrow.'"

I place my hand on his. “That’s adorable and tragic.”

"Everything after that was hockey. School was something I did between practices. Friends were teammates and summers were camps. My mother used to joke that I had ice in my veins instead of blood. She wasn't always joking."

His hand wraps around mine. His grip is tight, almost desperate.