Page 71 of Full Contact

Chapter eleven

Trier

Columbus had watched the film.

In the first period, I went back for a dump-in, felt the forechecker on my left, and turned to send the puck around behind our net to Rook. It was a pass I’d made hundreds of times. Their left winger was already cutting behind the goal line. He got a stick on it, and Pratt had to stop the puck.

In the second, I watched the same winger leave the slot before I’d touched the puck. He wasn’t chasing it. He was heading for where it would be. I didn’t have Rook, so I sent the puck up the boards before I wanted to. Their defenseman pinched and kept it in at the blue line. We spent thirty seconds getting it back.

I skated off and sat down next to Rook. He handed me a water bottle.

“Twenty-two, the left winger,” I said.

“He’s not following the puck. He’s following us.”

“He follows you behind the net.”

“That’s where I’m supposed to be. So, I’ll stop short and come back to the near post. You give it to me there,” Rook said. “That gives us the middle.”

“Cross will be there?” I asked.

“Cross is always there.”

At the far end, Varga lost the face-off and swore at the official. Markel tapped my shoulder for the next change.

Four minutes later, they dumped the puck into the corner on my side. I got there a stride ahead of their center while he leaned on me. Behind the net, Rook was moving the way he always moved, crossing to the far side. The winger went with him and dropped his stick into the passing lane.

Rook stopped and came back.

I put the puck on his blade at the near post. Twenty-two was still on the other side of the net, looking at the spot where the puck would have been. Rook had time to look up. Cross was coming through the middle with his stick on the ice. Rook hit him in stride, and we were out of the zone.

Cross carried it over the line and dropped it back to Varga. We cycled low long enough for their defense to start breathing hard. My shift ended in their corner, leaning on a man who wanted me to leave. When the whistle blew, I skated to the bench and sat beside Rook again.

“You could have mentioned that in the first period,” I said.

“You were busy talking.”

Rook drank his water. On the ice, Heath skated to the front of the opposing net and got crosschecked twice. All was normal.

We won three-two. We took the lead late in the second and Columbus spent the third trying to tie the game. Pratt made a save in the last minute that he’d describe later as acceptable.

In the locker room, I sat at my stall and started on my skates. Two stalls down, Callahan had his helmet off and was smiling to himself. Midway through the third, he’d sent a pass from our blue line across to Larsson at the far wall, under two sticks, flat enough to take without breaking stride. It had drawn a Columbus penalty.

He saw me looking. In September, he would have apologized for something. He’d grown.

“That pass in the third,” I said. “Did you mean for that to reach him?”

“Yes.” He pulled his elbow pad off. “I watched yours in the first period and ruled that option out.”

Rook breathed out through his nose. Larsson laughed.

“Good scouting,” I said.

Callahan went back to his equipment, still smiling. I unlaced my other skate.

Varga was explaining the face-off he’d lost to anyone who would listen. He insisted the official had moved early. Cross, sitting beside him with one shin pad off, said, “You were late,” and headed for the showers.

I showered, dressed, and sat to put on my shoes. My phone lit on the shelf of my stall.