Page 98 of The Forbidden Center

I stay. Brick stays too, because Sully points him onto my wing and leaves him in red.

Next draw’s in the left circle, then the right, then one at center after Sully decides the imaginary opponent has tied it.

Every rep starts in trouble, and I like that part. Trouble has a shape on the ice. Sticks, feet, time, and five men who need one decision out of me before they can make theirs.

At center their winger cheats inside, and I send Mack wide with two fingers against my thigh. He goes before the puck falls. I win it forward. He takes two strides and leaves it for me in open ice.

The defense expects me to carry, because that is what the younger version of me would have done.

I pull both men toward the middle and slide the puck through the lane I just made.

Brick catches it in stride. Shot. Post. In.

He lifts both arms. “Count it.”

“Wrong team,” Sully says.

“Goal doesn’t know that.”

Sully blows the whistle twice and practice ends with Brick still prosecuting the case.

Maren catches me before I reach the room. “Shoulder.”

“Still attached.”

“My standards have risen.”

She points at the training table along the wall. I sit. She presses along the front of the joint, then has me lift against her hand, and the ache holds where it has held all week. No sharper. No kinder.

“Any change after contact?”

“No.”

True.

She tests the rotation again. My left hand sits open on my thigh and the heat has already drained out of it.

“You were late getting the puck off on the first clear.”

Maren watches bodies for a living too.

“Roman had my stick.”

“Did he?”

“Ask him. He’ll be thrilled you noticed his contribution.”

Her eyes stay on me another second. Then she lets go of my arm.

“Same program. Tell me if contact changes it.”

“I always do.”

The lie leaves clean. I hate that it’s had practice.

In the room my phone’s lit inside the stall. Two messages.

First one’s from Quinn, my agent. They asked about the defensive deployment and the minutes. Call tonight.