Page 33 of Before the Fire
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Part Four: Home Ice
Chapter 17: Avi
The Zamboni makes its first pass and the ice goes from wrecked to clean in a slow, deliberate line.
I'm sitting in the lower bowl, Section 112, third row. The arena is empty except for the ice crew and the hum of the building doing what buildings do when the people leave. The lights are down to half. The Zamboni's engine echoes off the glass in a low, mechanical drone that I find more settling than silence.
First preseason game. We won, which matters less than it should and more than I expected. It was sloppy in the ways early hockey is always sloppy. Blown coverages, missed assignments, guys still learning each other's tendencies. But underneath the mess there were moments. A breakout in the second period that moved like we'd been running it for years. A penalty kill where four guys communicated without speaking. Small things. Things you build a season on, if you're paying attention.
The rookies played well. All four of them. Davis reads the ice with a patience unusual for someone his age. Mueller competes like he’s battling the puck directly, not the other players. Novákis sharper than his draft position suggests. And Hájek ran a power play rotation in the third period that made me look at the bench to see if anyone else noticed.
Someone did. Ash caught my eye from the other end and gave me a grin. Our unspoken understanding that it was definitely a good play.
Footsteps on concrete. I don't turn because I already know.
Ash drops into the seat next to me. He smells like soap and whatever he puts in his hair. Eucalyptus? He stretches his legs out in the aisle, crosses his ankles, and exhales like he's been holding his breath since the final buzzer.
"Good game," he says.
"It was adequate."
He laughs. Full, easy, the sound filling the empty section the way his voice fills every room. "Adequate. You know, most captains would say something inspiring right now. Something about building and growth and the journey."
"We won a preseason game."
"We won the FIRST preseason game for the Atlanta Firebirds. Historic. They'll make a documentary."
The Zamboni turns at the far end and starts its second pass, fresh ice gleaming under the half-lights, wet and perfect.
"The kids looked good," Ash says, quieter now. "Davis especially. And that play Hájek ran…" He turns his head toward me. I don't meet his eyes because I'm watching the ice, which is easier. "They've bonded. The four of them. Davis, Novák, Hájek, and Mueller. You notice that?"
"I noticed."
"Fontenot and Volkov survived the same ice without incident. Separate lines, but still."
"Small miracles."
"Coaching decision or strategy?"
"Both."
We sit with that for a moment. Watching the Zamboni circle the ice methodically. Steady, predictable, asking nothing.
"This is a good team, Avi."
I consider this. "It could be."
He nods. Doesn't push. That's the thing about Ash. He pushes constantly. Into rooms, into conversations, into the empty spaces other people leave alone. But with me, he doesn’t. He lets the silence and the space just be.
Eventually, he slaps his knees and stands. "All right. I'm starving. You want to grab some food?"
"No. I'm going to sit for a while."
"Yeah?" He looks at me, and pauses for half a second before he smiles. "Okay. Don't stay too long. Building's got to close eventually."
"They'll wait."
