Page 110 of Full Contact

“Go on,” Kieran said.

Heath stepped out onto the ice in his skates and his jersey and followed the carpet. He reached the logo and stopped.

The announcer kept it short. Heath had made sure of that. He described the exchange, mentioned the families who’d made the trip because someone covered their travel, talked about the equipment drives that had started in a garage, named the committee members, and welcomed the Thunder Bay Storm.

Denise and another committee member gave Heath his award, and the three of them turned and held it up together for the photographers.

Three seconds. I counted.

Up in section 112, a group of people stood. Hog’s height made them easy to find, a head above everybody around him. Pickle was waving with his whole arm.

Heath saw them after the photographers lowered their cameras. He lifted the award toward their seats, just for a moment, then skated it over to Danny at the gate and handed it off as instructed.

The whole bench pounded the boards. Somebody upstairs started a chant I couldn’t make out, and section 112 got much louder.

Varga leaned down the bench toward Heath. “They left out your technique,” he said. “Nineteen thousand people, and nobody mentioned that you score with your ass.”

“It wasn’t a scoring award.”

“It should have been.”

Kieran moved over to make room. When Heath sat, Kieran touched his arm, just above the elbow, and left his hand there a second. Heath was grinning.

Mark stood near the tunnel mouth, against the wall, one hand in his pocket and his phone in the other. He’d changed into his dark suit for the ceremony, and it fit him the way it had at the wedding. He watched until the last committee member cleared the gate. Then his shoulders dropped, just slightly.

He looked toward our bench. I caught his eye and smiled.

He smiled back.

The puck dropped at seven twelve. It was a tight game. They scored first, on a power play, off a deflection Pratt didn’t see until it was behind him. We tied it late in the second when Cross found Larsson cutting backdoor. The third was all checking and very little open ice. Rook and I spent most of a shift trying to clear the zone against a team that refused to let us.

With six minutes left, Heath planted himself at the front of their net and stayed there. Their defenseman crosschecked him once. Then again. Heath took both and stayed planted. Kieran got the puck at the half wall and shot on the net through traffic. The goalie leaned around Heath, one way and then the other, and never found it.

Two–one.

Heath got up from where he’d ended up on the ice, found his stick, and pointed it at section 112 before anybody on our side reached him.

We held on for the last six minutes. They pulled their goalie with ninety seconds left, and Rook blocked a shot with his shin. The horn blew.

The locker room was loud. Heath did his post-game interviews with a cut over one eyebrow and the scarf folded on the shelf of his stall behind him. Somebody asked him about the award, and he talked about Denise for a full minute before he got to the game. Somebody asked him about the crease, and he said, “That’s my job,” and then smiled so widely the reporter laughed.

I was tying my shoes when my phone buzzed.

Mark: Committee’s at the hotel. Storm’s at a bar on Randolph with Heath’s name on a reserved table. Two more things here, then I’m free.

Trier: Come over. I’ll feed you.

Mark: Twenty-five minutes.

Trier: I want to hear what you saw.

I got home and fed Peaches, who’d spent the evening with Anna and wanted to tell me about it at length. I changed out of my suit. There was chicken in the refrigerator from Thursday, and bread, and I put both in the oven to warm.

By the time the elevator chimed in the hall, I had the table set for two.

Mark entered with his tie in his coat pocket and his collar open. He kissed me hello in the entryway, then looked past me at the table.

“You set it.”