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"I don't know. He's Adeyemi. He apologizes to vending machines." Sorel sits down on the edge of the bed that's going to be mine. He pats the spot next to him. "Sit."

I sit.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

"No."

"Do you want me to go punch him?"

I laugh. It comes out wrong, cracked down the middle. "No."

"I would. I'd punch the captain. I'd get suspended for the rest of the Final and I'd do it anyway." He bumps his shoulder against mine. "Just say the word."

"He said it was a mistake," I say. "In front of Pruitt. In front of everybody."

Sorel doesn't say anything for a moment.

"Oh, Rémy," he says quietly.

That's what does it. Not Owen's face, not the door, not the lists on the pillow. It's Sorel saying my name like that, gently, like he's picking something up off the floor that's already broken.

I put my face in my hands, and I cry, and Sorel puts his arm around my shoulders and doesn't say anything else, in English or French. He just sits there and lets me.

After a while he gets up and goes to the minibar and comes back with a tiny bag of pretzels that probably costs nine dollars.

"Eat," he says, the same way he said it with the pierogi in October.

I eat the pretzels. They're terrible. They taste like a hotel. I eat every single one.

We lose game four, four to one.

Moretti keeps us on the same line. He doesn't have a choice. There's nobody else to put there. So I go over the boards next to Owen, shift after shift, and I skate to where the puck's supposed to go, and he throws it to empty ice, and I'm not there.

I'm never there. Twice the puck slides right through the spot where I should be, and a Nashville defenseman picks it up and goes the other way, and nineteen thousand people cheer like it's a goal. I don't know where he's going anymore. I don't want to know. I don't want to be in his head.

Varga scores twice. On the second one he skates past our bench and doesn't say anything at all. He just looks at Owen, and then at me, and he smiles, and he taps two fingers against his own chest, right over his heart, twice.

Nashville leads the series three games to one.

In the room after, nobody talks. Sorel sits next to me. He doesn't ask me anything. He knows. He was there when I opened the door to nine-twenty with my suitcase and my face wet.

My phone buzzes. It's Maman.

We're on the road!!! Your father's already stopped for gas three times. We'll see you Thursday. Game 5!!! Tell the sad bear dinner's at 7. I found a place with tourtière on the menu. In CHICAGO. Can you believe it.

I look at it.

He can't make it, I type. Something came up. Just us.

Six. That's six.

I scroll to Marc's name. It's late. He picks up on the second ring.

"Rémy? Are you okay? I saw the⁠—"

"Tell Frostline no," I say.

There's a pause.