Page 38 of Offside

We moved on to other topics. Bishop told me about his first year in the league, when he'd lived out of two duffel bags for six months. Unpacking seemed like a commitment the roster might punish. I told him I'd signed my Chicago lease after viewing the apartment for eleven minutes, then spent the first night listening to the radiator strike the wall.

"You've stayed in the same apartment?" he asked.

"Three years. The radiator still wins."

"Nothing keeps you in that apartment except the fact that you chose to stay," Bishop said.

"I know." He was talking about Denver, and smaller choices too. A different apartment or a different job. Any future needed an active decision instead of remaining where I was.

After dinner, Bishop walked me back to my car. He kept my hand in his coat pocket because the cold wind had picked up. At the driver's door, we stopped.

He looked at my mouth.

"Saturday," he said. "Dinner at my place."

"What are you cooking?"

"Stew," he said.

"Then I'll be there. I'll bring the bread."

He lifted our joined hands and pressed his thumb to my knuckles. Not a kiss. The restraint was deliberate now. Anticipation.

"Good night, Declan."

"I'll see you Saturday, Colt."

It was the first time I used his first name.

15

Bishop

The Detroit defenseman knew the whistle had gone. Everybody on the ice knew it. Kieran had the puck under his glove. The official stood behind the net with one arm up.

Nico turned toward the bench and stopped playing. The defenseman put both hands into Nico's back and drove him into the end boards. His helmet struck the glass and he went down on one knee.

I was at the bottom of the circle. I saw the defenseman's hands come up before the hit. I saw his weight continue through.

I went after him.

He turned when my shadow reached him. His gloves came off before mine did.

"Bishop—" Garrett called.

I dropped the left glove, then the right. The shoulder was already warm from the game; I'd stayed inside its planned range. I knew what it could take and what it couldn't.

I caught the front of his jersey with my right hand, low against his chest. I didn't reach high and never extended the arm away from my body. I pulled him off balance and hit him with the left. The first punch landed on his jaw and the second below his helmet. He tried to answer over the top. I turned his right shoulder with the jersey grip and let the punch pass behind my head. My left landed again. The building rose up around us.

The defenseman got his hand into the collar of my jersey and hauled, and my right arm started to rise with the fabric. My shoulder caught before it reached the dangerous point, a hard warning through the front of the joint. I stopped.

The old answer would have been to wrench the arm free and keep going until one of us hit the ice.

But I'd made my point. Nico was on his skates behind the official. I folded my left forearm across the defenseman's arms and held him close instead. The linesmen came between us.

"Done," I said. The defenseman tried to pull free for one last shot. I kept the right elbow down and let the officials take his weight. They sent us to separate penalty boxes. Nico skated past mine on his way to the bench. A red mark ran along his cheek where his visor had shifted.

"You good?" I asked through the glass. "The visor caught your cheek."