Page 39 of The Forbidden Center

“History has video.”

On the bench, Brick leans over the boards. “Pretty sure Riley meant to shoot.”

“Finally. A serious analyst.”

Sully smacks the dasher with the line card. “Enjoy yourselves after the next sixty seconds.”

“Coach hates joy,” Roman says.

“I hate celebrating instead of backchecking.”

We go.

Three shifts later the puck comes hard across my body toward the right side.

Normal play.

Normal reach.

My arm stops short.

It just doesn’t finish.

The puck clips the heel of my stick and drops between my skates. I kick it forward, settle it one-handed, and turn my hips between the puck and their center before he can take it.

Nobody in the building knows anything happened.

I do.

Report where it changes, not where it hurts.

Right there, Doc.

Useful fucking timing.

I send the puck deep and change.

On my next shift their center finishes a hit after the puck is gone. Shoulder into shoulder. He keeps the pressure on the right side while the official is looking up ice.

“Getting careful, twenty-seven?”

There’s room to give it back.

There’s always room.

I hear Sully instead.

Keep choosing the puck.

I roll off him, take the loose puck with me, and hit Mack through the middle.

“Coward,” the center says behind me.

I hate him a little for how well the word works.

Mack takes the zone and puts it on net. Rebound goes wide.

Right play.