Page 1 of Offside

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Bishop

"Drop," Garrett called.

I was already moving. Theo carried the puck through the neutral zone in a white practice jersey with Hayes low on his left and Volkov trailing wide. Garrett took Hayes. I held the middle and watched Theo's hips. His hands could lie about three different plays at once. His weight couldn't.

He wanted the middle, and I closed it before he reached the blue line.

Theo cut toward the boards, saw Garrett matching Hayes, and put the puck deep instead. It came around the glass hard enough to jump when it hit the uneven section behind our goal line.

I got there first with Volkov half a stride behind me. The puck didn't settle. I had to reach to get my blade over it, pull it off the wall, and bring it back under my body. By then Volkov had committed to the corner. I heard his edges bite and knew exactly how much time I had—not enough to turn cleanly.

I put my right side between his stick and the puck, feet wide and weight low. Garrett was coming around the net for the outlet.

Volkov hit me the instant I got control of it.

It was a clean hit. His shoulder caught mine and drove me into the glass. I'd taken the same contact a thousand times. Usually my body accepted it, found the boards, and sent the force down through my skates. This time the shoulder quit.

There was a hard drop inside the joint, then no strength. Completely useless. My arm went heavy. The puck was still under my stick, so I held it there with my skate and pushed it blind behind the net.

Garrett's blade caught it as I went down on one knee.

No whistle. The play was already moving the other way. I got my left glove on my thigh and stood before anybody could decide to come back.

Volkov did anyway. "Bishop."

"Play."

He looked at my arm. I moved it enough to make the point.

"I barely touched you. You hit the ice yourself."

At the red line, Theo circled and slapped his stick on the ice. Volkov gave me one more look, then turned and joined the rush.

I stayed out. The shoulder had been bad since June. Bad was familiar. I knew how much reach made it grind and how long I could keep an opposing forward on that side before the joint started to burn.

This was different. When I lifted my stick to close the lane, the arm stopped below what I tried to do with it.

So I stopped asking it. I kept the stick lower and used my feet. On the next entry, Hayes tried to cross in front of me. I took two short steps into the lane and made him go around. He sent the puck back to Theo at the point. I stayed between Hayes and the net instead of reaching across his body to tie up his stick.

Theo's shot hit my hip and dropped beside my skate. I chipped it to Garrett with one hand.

"Change," Reeves called from the boards.

He had his tablet under one arm. He didn't look at the puck leaving the zone, he looked at me.

I went to the bench, waited through the next pair's shift, then climbed over the boards when Garrett did. Reeves could remove me if he wanted to.

Volkov came down my side on the next rush. He expected the wall. I gave him the outside, kept my inside edge, and let him carry the puck. Volkov shot from below the circle. Abbott steered it into the corner. No collision, no reach—no problem anybody in the seats would have seen.

Reeves saw it. Vicki did too, and she was waiting at the tunnel door when our group came off.

"Table," she said. She left no room for negotiation.

"I've got another rep. I can finish the drill."

"It's over. Table."