Page 173 of Full Contact

When we finished, I set the bowls on the side table and leaned against him. He rested his cheek against my hair.

It was still a bad night, but it was a better bad night with his weight against me.

“Bus at eleven,” he said. “Flight at one.”

“Kessler at eight. Then I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“We should go to bed.”

“In a minute.”

His arm settled around me as the minute passed.

I checked that we both had alarms set, found Trier a spare phone charger, and turned out the living room light.

***

My call with Kessler took nine minutes. The broadcast agreement stood. If his producers wanted a change, they could ask Leah and accept her answer.

We won Game Three in Boston by a goal. Game Four went to overtime. Heath fought for the puck along the boards, kept it moving with his skate, and finally knocked it free to Kieran. The puck was in the net before I’d started shouting for the shot.

Afterward, I found Trier in the visitors’ locker room with one skate off. He sat with his elbows on his knees, looking down at the other.

“Telling it to untie itself?” I asked.

“Yeah, but it’s not listening.”

I crouched in front of him and loosened the laces. He rested a hand on my shoulder while I worked.

We flew home up three games to one. Trier slept for most of the flight, and I spent it preparing for a game that could end with the Stanley Cup on our ice.

The morning of Game Five, Devin sent me a photograph of four satellite trucks parked outside the arena. I hadn’t had my coffee yet.

A morning show wanted to know whether Peaches could attend the game “in any capacity.” Leah had already replied.

She’s unavailable.

I read it aloud to Trier in his kitchen. Somewhere outside, a neighbor was playing our goal song loudly enough for us to hear through the open window.

“She has a full day,” he said.

On the couch, Peaches slept with one front paw tucked beneath her chin.

“I can see that.”

Trier picked up his phone and walked over to her. Rather than crouch on his sore hip, he sat on the edge of the coffee table and filmed ten seconds of her sleeping. She didn’t open an eye.

I assumed he was sending it to his family. Then he selected Leah’s name and typed a caption.

Her pick.

“You want that posted?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“All ten seconds?”

“That’s the performance.”