Page 72 of Payback On The Ice

He's in his stance. Knees, hips, glove open. Perfectly still. Waiting.

And I know I can beat him. No ego in it. Just math. I've been shooting on him every morning for five months. I know where his weight goes when I drop my shoulder. I know he cheats a quarter-inch toward his blocker when he's tired. I know he's been up late every night this week, because he's been up late with me.

One more. One more, and he says five, and the wager's done.

And then what?

Then I'm just a guy on the team. That's the deal. You score all five, I'm done with you. Then there's no reason to be on the ice at six. No reason for him to stand in the crease and wait for me. No reason for me to bring two coffees down the tunnel in a cardboard tray. We'd just be two guys who play for the same team. Who share a wall.

I come down the ice.

I come in fast and give him the shoulder, and he bites—just a little, just the quarter-inch—and the whole short side opens up in front of me like a door.

I put it a foot wide.

It hits the end boards with a hollow bang. It doesn't come close.

I don't look at him. I circle away and go pick it up.

"Four," he says behind me.

"Yes."

I can feel him looking at me. I keep my head down and drop the puck in the bucket.

It's back to Hollis for the weekend. The same Country Lodge off the interstate, the same waterslide nobody can use, the same painting of a duck over the TV.

Jace reads the room list on the bus.

"Kovač and Lindqvist," he says, and nobody says oh this time. Gunnar mutters something to Kasper. Petey, who has been sitting next to me on the bus since the Lantern, says, "He opens the window, right? Kasper told me he opens the window."

"In February," I say.

"Why?"

"He's a goalie, Petey. They're all a little broken."

Two rows up, Dane doesn't turn around. But I can see his ear go red.

Friday night we win 4–1, and he closes his glove on every single shot.

There's a moment in the second period, a wrister from the half-wall, the exact same shot from the exact same spot as last time. He snaps his glove shut on it so hard the crowd hears it, and he holds it up in the air for one full second before he drops it, and looks down the ice at the bench.

At me.

On the bench, Wes elbows me. "What was that?"

"No idea."

"He's never done that."

"He's weird," I say. "You know he's weird."

I get an assist on our third goal. In the handshake line, I'm right behind Dane. Nobody holds anybody's hand too long.

The thing about having rules is that you know exactly where the line is.

So you can walk right up to it.