Page 8 of The Forbidden Center

The puck clips my skate. I kick it forward to Rydell, who shoots wide.

“You owe me one,” I tell Rydell.

“For that pass?”

“For making it look intentional.”

“At least mine reached the net.”

“Technically, no.”

Sully points at us. “Less marriage counseling. Again.”

At the boards I pull my glove off with my teeth and press my thumb beneath my collarbone, where the heat has moved in. There’s a particular way a man checks his own body in a room full of people who get paid to notice things, and I have gotten very good at it.

Nobody is looking.

Good.

I shove the glove back on before Mack turns.

Next rep, he puts the puck where I usually want it. I keep the elbow close and turn my whole body instead.

Half a second slower.

The defender closes.

“Riley. Quicker.”

“Getting old, Coach.”

“Do it after practice.”

“Can I schedule it?”

“No.”

“Hostile.”

We reset.

This pass leaves my stick clean. The pull under my shoulder climbs into my neck hard enough to make my teeth meet.

I finish the rep.

Mack waits at the gate.

“You good?”

“Your passing improves, I’ll be excellent.”

His eyes drop to my right arm.

He doesn’t ask again.

That’s why we’ve lasted this long.

I knock my stick against his shin pad. “Move. You’re blocking traffic.”