Page 3 of Payback On The Ice

Up close his eyes are gray, very light, the color of old ice.

"Whenever you wanted," he says.

It's the first thing he's said to me. His voice is low and completely even.

"Any time. Any day."

"Tomorrow. Six. Kettle." He doesn't blink. "Just you and me."

"Wow. Breakfast date. Should I bring flowers?"

"Five breakaways. You start at the blue line. No rebounds." He lets that settle. "You score all five in one session, I'm done with you."

Behind him, the whole room is watching like it's a playoff game.

"So is this room," Dane says.

Something in my chest pulls tight. I keep my face where it is.

"And if I don't?"

"When."

"Wow. Okay. When I don't."

"Then you do what I say." He doesn't move. He doesn't need to; he's already taking up all the air. "On the ice. Off it. Every morning until you score all five."

"What, like carry your bag?"

"Like whatever I say."

I should laugh. I should tell him to go to hell. That's the guy I've been all day and it's the guy I need to be in here, because if they see the other one they'll eat him alive.

The thing is, it's a door.

Five pucks. Five pucks and he's done with me and this room is done with me and I'm just a guy who plays right wing. I've been trying to find a way through a wall for six months, and he just held one open.

There's another part of me, quieter, that hears do what I say and thinks: yeah. Fair.

I shut that part up.

"All five in one morning," I say.

"All five."

"And then you leave me alone. All of you."

"Then you're just a guy on the team."

I laugh. It comes out a little too loud. "Kovač, you have no idea how many goalies have said shit like that to me."

"Six," he says. "Late counts as a miss."

He turns around, walks back up the room, sits down in his stall, and picks up the stick like he never put it down. The tape comes off the roll with a long, flat rip.

The room starts breathing again.

"Dead man," Gunnar says, to nobody in particular, and somebody turns the music up.