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Mack opens the passenger door.

“Food?”

“Obviously.”

“You’re buying.”

“I’m retired.”

“You have money.”

“Fixed income.”

He gets in.

Tomorrow, Guerra. First thing.

My phone buzzes before I get my own door shut. Tova.

27

Chapter forty-seven

Astrid

Tova has left the sound on.

She is at the other end of Gabi’s sofa with her knees up and her phone face down on top of them.

In the second period he wins a draw and they show it again from above. His left skate opens before the puck drops, and the other center leans the wrong way. I have watched that on film more often than Tova knows. Tova knows exactly how often.

Between shifts he says something to Mack, and Mack drops his head and laughs into his glove.

I know the look he gave Mack right before he said it. I have had it across a kitchen island, with a dish towel over his shoulder.

I laugh before I can stop it. Tova looks over at me. I keep my eyes on the television.

There are two minutes left and they are ahead by one, with a faceoff in their own end.

The camera is on him when the coach puts his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. He does not move. He watches Ryan go over the boards.

“That’s his,” Tova says.

The director cuts to the bench.

He has his left glove off. Maren is bent over his hand, testing the fingers one at a time. My thumb moves across my own fingertips in the same order.

Then the camera is somewhere else.

The horn goes on three to one. They gather at center and lift their sticks, and the whole building is saying his name.

He lifts his stick with his right hand. The left stays at his side.

“Is he going to cry?” Tova asks.

“No.”

He does not. I am the one who has to look away.