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She takes my wrist.

“Grip.”

I squeeze.

“Again.”

I do.

She checks the fingers one at a time.

“Colt, you’re done tonight.”

“Yeah.”

The horn goes on a three-to-one win, and we gather at center, twenty players lifting our sticks after the last game of the season.

The lower bowl doesn’t want to leave.

The chant starts behind our bench.

“Riley.”

Another section catches it.

“Riley.”

Then another.

Mack bumps my skate. I look up. Thousands of people are standing.

They don’t know what Silas is about to tell me. They don’t know what Kansas City offered. They don’t know what I’m going to do.

Neither do I.

I lift my stick.

The noise gets louder.

Back in the room, my phone is face up on the shelf.

Ruth. Quinn. Two numbers I don’t know.

Nothing from Astrid.

Nothing from Tova.

She texted me from Sweden once after a game before I’d even made it out of the room.

Did we win?

Then, before I could answer:

Did you score?

I open Astrid’s thread. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.

I lock the screen without typing.