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“Mason’s gone,” he said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table.

“No way. He’s got two years left on his deal,” I pointed out.

Cally shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Bell can’t stand him.”

I sifted through my memories once the vets had joined us to see if anything stood out, but came up blank. “I haven’t seen anything like that.”

“Watch tomorrow. Mason was open at the right circle yesterday and Bell skated it back to the point instead. He’d rather lose the entry than feed the guy the puck.” Cally’s finger traced a quick arc across the tabletop—the entry, the curl back, the imaginary point man—like he was showing me the play on a whiteboard.

“One time doesn’t make a pattern. Maybe Bell saw something you didn’t.”

“Except something similar has happened three times now.” He relaxed back in his seat. “Which is a pattern.”

My instinct was to be skeptical, but if Cally was sure he’d clocked something, I figured I should believe him. He was more observant than anyone else I’d ever played with, and that might include Stryker Bell.

“For the sake of argument, say you’re right about how Bell feels about Mason.” I tipped back my water bottle, but nothing came out. I got up and went to the sink to refill it, calling over my shoulder, “I don’t know that you’re right about Bell getting a say in whether he stays or not.”

“What our captain wants is what the front office wants,” Cally said as I dropped back down across from him.

“Coach runs the room.”

“With input from Bell,” he countered.

If Hendricks liked Mason, I didn’t think there was anything in the world Bell could say that would make him change his mind. Not unless Bell’s beef had less to do with how Mason played and more to do with his personality, which, to be fair, was kind of shit.

“We’ll see.”

From there, we started talking about hockey in general, and that’s when Cally became really animated. His hands moved, and his expression brightened as he described seeing Nikita Kucherov and Alex Ovechkin score on his dad. Apparently, it was watching them play that’d made him want to go pro someday.

I’d had teammates who loved the game. Hell, I loved the game. But Cally’s love was a whole other thing. I still couldn’t believe he’d thought about quitting. I got the impression that he was a guy who, if hockey didn’t exist, would have been less of a person.

“When did you really know you weren’t going to med school?”

His eyes dropped to the table, like holding my gaze was too much, and he brushed his thumb in slow circles over the fake wood grain. “I think, deep down, I knew that wasn’t ever really an option.” His eyes came back up, and I found myself leaning forward. “It was always going to be hockey. I just had to get to a point where I could do it on my own.” He cleared his throat and leaned back. “Anyway. What about you?”

Cally and I couldn’t have had more different upbringings, and while my mom had done her best with what we had, it could be embarrassing to lay it all out for someone who might not understand that.

But he had trusted me with something personal. I figured I could return that trust.

So I told him about my mom’s other boyfriend—not the guy who’d signed me up for the learn-to-play skate days, but the one after that who’d take me to a pond near his house on Saturdays because she needed to work an extra shift and he had a kid brother he could pawn me off on. The skates they lent me were way too big, so I’d had to wear three pairs of socks just to make them fit. I told Cally how, later, I’d asked my mom if I could play hockey for real, and she’d said yes, even though at that age I knew we didn’t really have the money for it.

I also told him about the secondhand gear that smelled like other kids’ sweat. About the seasons when my pads didn’t fit because I’d grown two inches over the summer and we couldn’t afford new ones. About the rich kids in high school who treated me like a charity case, and how I’d smile and say “thank you” every single time since taking their handouts was the only way I could keep playing.

“You wore other guys’ equipment?”

“Sure.” I shrugged. It really hadn’t been a big deal. I mean, I could see how he might have thought it was, but for me, it was a means to an end.

“For how long?” Cally asked.

“Pretty much always. I loved Rich Kid Christmas.”

It occurred to me then that Cally grew up with the best gear his dad’s money could buy. What had happened to all the stuff he’d grown out of? Had it ended up in a garbage can somewhere or had his family passed it on to someone like me? Would he even know?

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

“For what?"

“That you had to do that.”