Page 7 of The Grumpy Defenseman
Mack came in behind him, coffee in hand, his gaze moving between Samantha and me with veteran interest.
“Didn’t know we were doing private shoots now,” Mack said.
“We’re not,” I said.
“Kinda looks like you are.” Brick leaned against the boards. “What happened to the ‘I’d rather eat glass than be photographed’ policy?”
“It’s for the campaign.”
“At six in the morning?”
“Fewer distractions.”
Brick and Mack exchanged a look that contained an entire conversation. Mack took a sipof his coffee.
“Heard Vane’s riding everybody about campaign timing,” Mack said. “Walsh is asking questions.”
I filed that. Vane’s problems were not my problems. But if David Walsh was leaning on the campaign during a contract year, the temperature in the organization was climbing.
“Well, don’t let us interrupt.” Brick pushed off the boards. “We’re just here to work out. Pretend we don’t exist.”
“When have you ever let anyone forget you exist?”
He clutched his chest. “Wounded, McKinney. Truly wounded.”
They disappeared through the gym entrance, Brick’s laugh echoing behind them. The arena settled back into quiet, but the quality of it had changed. The seal had been broken. The world had leaked in.
Samantha was packing her camera into its bag.
“You’re done?” I asked.
“I got what I came for.”
She zipped the bag, slung it over her shoulder, and met my eyes one more time. Not warm. Not cold. Steady.
“Thanks for the ice time,” she said, and walked away.
I stood there as her footsteps faded down the tunnel. The rink hummed around me, the cycling refrigeration system, the ice already beginning to show the marks I had carved into its surface.
She had watched me skate and seen something I did not show anyone. She had described my position with more precision than most coaches I had known over the past nine years. And she had asked a question that was still lodged in the center of my chest, cold and heavy.
Whether you’re keeping people out or keeping yourself in.
I grabbed a puck from the boards and drove it into the empty net, hard enough to hear thecrossbar ring.
The sound traveled through the arena and came back thinner, like everything else in the building.
Samantha
Imade it all the way to my car before the image caught up to me.
Not a photograph. I had not taken one, not of the moment that mattered. This was worse. This was a memory, which meant it did not have edges I could crop or exposure I could correct. It just sat there in full resolution behind my eyes: Evan McKinney carving arcs into empty ice like he was writing something in a language only his body understood.
I dropped my camera bag onto the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The parking lot was nearly empty. The August morning was already brutal, sun hitting the asphalt so hard it shimmered, and I sat there with the engine off, letting the heat build because apparently I had decided that sweating through a minor emotional crisis was how I wanted to start my Tuesday.
I had photographed athletes on four continents. I had seen greatness before. This was different.
What I had seen on that ice was not performance. It was not the version of Evan McKinney that showed up at community events and media days with his face locked down and his walls at full height. It was the version that existed when no one was there to see it: fluid and almost reverent. The way he handled the puck was not skill. It was conversation. Like the ice was the only thing in his life that talked back to him in a language he trusted.
