Page 84 of Payback On The Ice

Of course it's Harrow.

They beat Pine Ridge in the other semifinal, 4–3 in double overtime, and when the score comes up on the TV in the living room on Saturday night, the whole house goes quiet. Gunnar says, "Oh, hell," and Jace turns the TV off.

Theo's sitting on the arm of the couch. He doesn't move.

It's a best-of-three. Game 1 and Game 2 at Kettle next weekend, Friday and Saturday, because we finished first. If there's a Game 3, the conference pushes it to the following Saturday for the TV deal. Win two and we're conference champions. Win two and we're in the national tournament.

"So," Gunnar says. "Who wants to talk about it?"

"Nobody wants to talk about it," Jace says.

Theo gets up and goes upstairs.

I wait five minutes, and follow him.

On Tuesday, Marrack goes on TV.

It's a regional sports show out of Detroit, the kind with two guys in suits behind a desk and a graphic that spins. Somebody in the room plays it on their phone before practice, and then somebody else plays it, and then it's on four phones at once, a tinny chorus of the same voice from every corner of the room.

"—and look, I've been doing this thirty years, and I've never been prouder of a group than this year's Ironmen. These kids have been through a lot."

"Coach, the elephant in the room. Your opponent has Theo Lindqvist on the roster. How do you feel about that?"

A laugh. Big, warm, beer-commercial.

"Listen. I wish that young man nothing but the best. We did everything we could for him. Everything. But at the end of the day, Theo acted alone that night. He made a choice nobody asked him to make. And some kids just aren't coachable, you know? You can lead a horse to water."

"So you'd say there's no bad blood?"

"Not from my side. I hope he's figured it out. I really do."

Somebody stops the video. The room is very quiet.

Theo's at his stall at the end, lacing his skates. He doesn't look up. His fingers don't stop. He pulls the laces tight, ties a double knot, and moves to the other skate.

"Acted alone," Okoye says slowly, from his corner. "So he acted alone."

"Okoye," Wes says.

"No, I'm just saying. That's what the guy says." Okoye looks around the room. "His coach. His own coach is saying he did it on his own. That's what we all thought, right? Back in September. And then everybody just—" He waves his hand. "Changed their mind. And nobody ever said why."

He looks at me.

Everybody looks at me.

"D," Jace says quietly. "Is there something we should know?"

I look at the end of the room.

Theo's finished his skates. He's looking at me now. His face is completely calm. And he shakes his head. Barely.

Don't.

"No," I say.

Okoye stares at me for a long second. Then he turns back to his stall and starts taping his stick.

But at practice, he doesn't pass to Theo. Neither does Gunnar. Neither do two of the juniors. Nobody's ordered a freeze-out. Nobody's told anybody anything. It's just quiet, in a way it hasn't been in a month. Like the room's taken one step back from him and is watching to see what he'll do.