Page 21 of The Forbidden Center

“Don’t spread it around.”

“You had me.”

“I still do.”

We reset.

Next rep he tries the same thing. This time I beat him to the wall, take the puck off his stick, keep him outside with my hips, and come out clean.

No hit. No wrestling match. No reason to put my right shoulder into anything that doesn’t help us score.

I feed Mack again.

Goal.

Rydell taps the back of my calf with his stick. “Coward.”

He says it smiling, because he thinks that’s how this works.

I stop.

He gets two more strides before he notices, and then he has to come back to me, which is already the wrong way to have this conversation.

“Say it again.”

“It was a joke.”

“Say it again.”

He does not.

“You stepped to me twice and I took the puck off you both times without touching you. Step to me again and I’ll stop being polite about it.”

“Riley.”

“Fuck off down the ice.”

He goes.

Roman is looking at me.

“It was good.”

It was good.

I’ve spent two years being careful in this building. Careful with the arm, careful with the room, careful with every word out of my mouth about either one. I had forgotten I’m also allowed to be the man nobody steps to.

Sully blows the whistle.

Rydell plays the next ten minutes harder than he has played all month.

I didn’t do it for that.

Sully takes us to the dots after.

Faceoffs are the part of my job nobody buys a ticket for. Nineteen thousand people come to watch Roman do something beautiful at speed. Nobody in the history of this building has stood up for a draw.

I’ve won more of them than anyone in this organization, and it’s the only number I actually check.