Page 17

THEO

Harrow Tech's rink is called the Pit, and it's earned the name.

It's a concrete bowl sunk halfway into a hillside in Ashby, Michigan, with steep seats that come right down on top of the glass. The ceiling is low and black and the sound has nowhere to go. I played two years in this building. I know which section yells the loudest, which corner of the ice has the soft spot near the boards, which stairwell the students use to sneak beer in under their coats.

I've never come into it through the visitors' tunnel.

"Bag," Dane says behind me on the bus steps.

"Yes."

I'm not supposed to say yes off the ice. Nobody told me to stop.

I carry his bag in through the loading dock and down a hallway I've walked a thousand times, past the trophy case with my old team photo in it. I'm in the second row. They didn't take it out. I'm still there, smiling, with Cole Vasko's arm around my neck and Mikey Brandt doing bunny ears behind my head.

I keep walking.

The visitors' room is small and the heat's turned up to ninety, which is a Harrow thing, a Marrack thing. He used to laugh about it. Let 'em sweat before they get on the ice.

"Jesus," Gunnar says, pulling his shirt off. "Is it always like this?"

"Always," I say. "Drink extra water. And don't use the left sink. It's been broken since the Clinton administration."

A couple of guys actually look at me. Like I've said something useful. Then they remember and look away.

Dane doesn't look at me at all. He's taping his own stick, even though I already taped all six of them last night. He's re-doing the knob. Seven wraps.

He's nervous. I didn't think he got nervous. It's in his hands; he's wrapping too tight.

Warmups are bad.

The student section has been waiting all week. I know because Mikey's girlfriend posted the signs on her story on Tuesday, and someone sent it to me, because there's always someone. LINDQVIST = COWARD. A bedsheet with a picture of a chicken on it in a Graymoor jersey. And a bunch of guys in the front row with black-and-orange facepaint chanting a thing that rhymes my last name with something I won't repeat.

I skate my lines. I take my shots on Kasper. I don't look up.

The fans aren't the hardest part. The other end of the ice is.

Mikey's there, stretching on the red line, and he doesn't look at me. Cole's there too, and when I come past the center circle, he glances up for one second, and he does this little thing with his chin, just a quarter of an inch. A nod. Then he goes back to his stretch.

That's it. That's all I get. I'll take it.

And on the Harrow bench, with his arms crossed and his quarter-zip zipped to the throat, stands Coach Ray Marrack.

He isn't looking at me either. He's talking to his assistant, laughing at something, easy. He's got that face that makes boosters write checks. Big and friendly and red, a dad's face, a face from a beer commercial.

My legs go a little loose under me.

I stop at the boards and pretend to fix my glove.

"Problem?"

Dane's in front of me. He's come out of his crease, all the way out to the boards, which goalies don't do during warmups. Mask up on his head. Looking at me.

"Yes," I say.

His eyes go to the Harrow bench. Back to me.

"You don't get to say yes to that," he says.