Page 1 of Cross Check
1
KIERAN
The shot came from the left circle, low and hard. It registered late.
My blocker dropped. The puck caught the edge of the padding and deflected wide, cracking off the boards behind me. I stayed down in my butterfly for a half-second too long, watching the rebound die in the corner, then pushed back to my feet and reset.
"You cheated right," Luca called from the blue line. He had his stick resting across his thighs, watching me with the look he got during optional skates. Part captain, part analyst. Zero mercy.
"I read the release point wrong."
"You read it fine. You committed early." He snapped another puck onto his blade and settled his weight. "Again."
I dropped into my stance. Hands out, shoulders square, eyes on his hips rather than the puck. The compressors hummed overhead in the empty rink. Late October in Chicago, and thepractice facility smelled the way it always did after hours—cold air, rubber, and the faintly chemical bite of fresh ice.
Luca wound up and fired.
This one I caught clean. Glove hand, the puck stinging against my palm through the padding. I squeezed it and held it up.
"Better," he said.
"Your praise is overwhelming."
His mouth twitched. That was practically a belly laugh, coming from Luca. A year ago, before Theo, before the press conference, before all of it, he wouldn't have given me even that much. He'd been locked so tight that even his closest friend couldn't reach much beyond the captaincy.
Now he twitched. Progress.
We ran another twenty minutes of shooting drills. My hip flexors ached by the end, the left one grinding in a way I'd been ignoring for three weeks. I made a mental note to get it looked at. The new physical therapist, Declan, had been after me about it since preseason. Solid guy. Bishop had come out of a session with him looking vaguely unsettled, though he wouldn't say why.
"Shower?" Luca asked, stripping off his gloves as we stepped off the ice.
"Go ahead. I want to stretch."
He nodded and disappeared into the tunnel. His footsteps receded down the corridor, then silence. I dropped onto the bench to work through my cool-down routine alone.
I liked this part, the quiet at the end of the day. Most people assumed goalies were wired differently, and they weren't wrong. You spent sixty minutes reading angle geometry and explosive movement, your entire body primed for a puck you might only face thirty times a game. When the noise stopped, you needed time to power down. Otherwise the vigilance followed you home and sat beside you at the kitchen table and stared at you while you tried to eat dinner.
My phone buzzed on the bench. I glanced at the screen, expecting Luca telling me to hurry up.
It was David Park, the Storm's GM.
I stared at the name for two rings before answering. GMs didn't call goaltenders on a Tuesday evening unless something was wrong or something big was about to change.
"Walsh."
"Kieran. You got a minute?"
"Just finished skating. What's up?"
Park had a voice that belonged in a courtroom—measured and careful, every word chosen before it left his mouth. "We're making a trade. Acquiring a forward from Minnesota. The deal closes tomorrow morning."
"Okay." Trades happened. That was the business. But Park didn't call players to announce routine acquisitions. "Who?"
A beat of silence. Too long.
"Nico Varis."
My hand tightened on the phone. "The gambling investigation."
