Page 66 of Caught Offside

The pull was still in him somewhere. It probably always would be. The reflex that said the ground was moving, that the easiest move was to be the one who left first, to turn something this big into an exit before it could turn into a loss. He knew that voice better than he knew most of himself.

He didn’t get up. He sat in the middle of an ordinary afternoon: a hockey player on his too-small couch, a major-league season in front of him, his dads close enough to drop in on. He didn’t once look at the door.

“How long do I have you?” he asked.

“Through tomorrow’s game.” Patrick’s arm tightened across his back. “Then it’s a drive I’ll be making a lot.”

“I’ll leave the light on.”

EPILOGUE

Patrick had done more first days of training camp than he could count, and this was the first one he’d driven to with a good-morning text still sitting on his phone. The rink smelled of rubber and cold, the chemical bite of a fresh sheet underneath. He stepped through the tunnel into it. The ice was September ice, cut sharp, like the Zamboni driver had been waiting all offseason for someone to notice.

Training camp had an energy the regular season didn’t, looser. The returning guys carried themselves with the easy confidence that came from doing this September ritual for years. The new faces—two draft picks, a trade acquisition from Winnipeg, a free agent defenseman Patrick had already watched tape on—moved through the room with the careful awareness of people trying to take up the right amount of space.

Patrick dressed in his stall. Left skate then right, tape check, gloves, helmet. The stall itself had changed. The strip of photos tucked into the edge of the nameplate above his head was new. Three of them, printed small. One from Appleton: Asher in the dugout, mid-laugh, his catcher’s gear pushed back on his head. One from Milwaukee: dinner at Sean and Mason’s, all four of them at the table, Mason’s arm slung around Asher’s shoulders, Sean visible in the background doing something precise to a brisket. One from Montreal: Asher on the porch with Patrick, both holding beers, Asher’s expression caught between delight and mild terror because Patrick’s father had just finished telling the story about five-year-old Patrick trying to fight a goalie during a peewee game.

The photos were small enough that nobody would notice unless they were looking, which meant Pruitt noticed within the first hour.

“Fonty.” Pruitt materialized at the edge of the stall, squinting at the strip. “Nice pics.”

“Thanks.”

“Mavericks are looking good, by the way. I’ve got them winning the division.”

Patrick looked at him. “Since when do you watch baseball?”

“Since your guy started catching for them, obviously,” Pruitt said like Patrick was the one being weird. “Is he coming to Kubara’s cookout? Families, kids, the whole thing. Tell him to bring the dads. I have questions for Mason Atley that only Mason Atley can answer.”

“I’ll ask.”

“That’s a yes.” Pruitt straightened and looked at Patrick a second longer than usual. “Good for you, Fonty.”

He walked away before Patrick could respond. Across the room, Olivier caught Patrick’s eye and raised an eyebrow.

Patrick finished dressing and headed for the tunnel.

The first skate was conditioning, no puck, no systems. Barlow blew the whistle, and they went, line to line. Patrick’s legs were good. He’d trained through the summer, but the discipline had been interrupted: whole homestands spent in Milwaukee, the I-94 drive north that had quietly stopped feeling like a chore.

He finished the skate and filed off with the group. In the tunnel, Dev fell into step beside him.

“Good summer?” Dev asked.

“Yeah. You?”

Dev’s answer came a half-second late. “Yeah. Good. Quiet.”

The delay was unlike Dev. Patrick glanced at him. Dev’s expression was neutral, but his gaze had drifted. Patrick followed the trajectory and found Eli Lindqvist fifteen feet ahead, walking beside the new acquisition from Winnipeg. Lindy was laughing at something, his head tipped back, his gear bag over his shoulder.

Dev looked away. The motion was controlled but not fast enough to be casual.

Patrick recognized the architecture.

“You good?” Patrick asked. The question carried more than its words. A door opened with the same quietness Dev had used when he’d opened one for Patrick in this same hallway six months ago.

Dev looked at him. A flash of something unresolved and raw that surfaced and submerged in the span of a breath.

“Working on it,” Dev said.