Page 116 of Crease Collision

“One in a thousand,” Holmer agrees.

“Mm.”

I pull up another clip. “There’s a tell, if you want one. Watch the top of his stick before a shot he thinks he’s got. Little wiggle, right there. That’s him deciding he’s about to rob somebody.”

Holmer leans in. “Huh. Nice.”

Patterson watches me instead of the screen, wearing a crooked grin. “You’re awfully generous with the man’s highlight reel today.”

I told everyone about Ozzy and me weeks ago, so Holmer and Patterson know about us.

“He’s one of the best goalies in the league, and I’m the one you asked. Want me to pretend he’s bad at his job?”

We work through butterfly idiosyncrasies, rebound tendencies, and little habits only another goalie would see.

Holmer points at the screen. “Look at that.”

The Barracudas’ Nick Johnson buries one, and even Oskar looks impressed.

“Nick’s still got one hell of a shot,” Holmer says. “Play it again but skip the faceoff.”

A few minutes later, after we finish a clip, Patterson holds up a hand. “What about Olofsson’s temper? He gets sloppy after he’s been scored on. Overplays the next couple of chances.”

I go still. He’s found the one place where Ozzy isn’t the man the rest of the league sees. The calm and patience are missing while he tries to claw the goal back by himself.

I want to keep that to myself, but that isn’t how this works. Keeping it would be its own kind of lie.

“It’s not sloppiness,” I say. “He’s furious at himself. Watch.” I rewind and let it play again. “Next three plays, he overcommits, then tries to steal one back. It’s emotional. And…” I freeze the frame. “His own D-man was screening him on the goal. He’s angry at a teammate he can’t say a word to, and at himself for not being able to see through a body that shouldn’t have been there.”

Patterson’s eyebrows go up. “You’re sure about all that?”

“Positive.”

Holmer nods, thinking three days ahead. “We bait him, then? Get one early and go right back at him while he’s hot?”

I want to talk him out of it and shield Ozzy from a strategy that could hurt him.

He’s too disciplined, I could say. It won’t work. Leave it.

I could sell that.

But I stay quiet. The reflex to get between him and the world is no good.

Patterson arrives there on his own. “Nah. He’s good enough not to chase bait. Better for us to know it’s coming and be ready when he hands us something.”

“Agreed,” Holmer says, capping his pen.

They talk for another twenty minutes. Possible lines, who I’d send over the boards against Ozzy and when, what might beat me if I had the same weaknesses.

At last, they’ve got what they came for. Holmer claps my shoulder on his way out. “Good work. If anything else jumps out, call me.”

“Will do.”

When they’re gone, I stare at the shot of Ozzy on the screen. I should pack up, but I pull a random clip instead. A one-timer from the point, a sequence with a dozen things in it worth breaking down. Angle, rebound, the chaos we could make in front of him.

But I don’t analyze any of it. I watch Ozzy. He sees the shot coming before it’s a shot, shifts his weight a little early, and catches the puck as if he’s picking it off a shelf. No rebound, nothing to clean up. It’s just finished.

Nobody else would get there in time for that. I wouldn’t. I might even trip over my own skates trying.