Chapter 12 #2
I played three of the last four minutes.
Markel sent my pair out for the final minute-forty against their top line.
They pulled their goalie out of the net to carry an extra attacker.
We didn’t chase anything. We held the house.
I blocked a shot with the inside of my ankle that I’d feel in the morning.
When the horn sounded, the scoreboard said 2–1.
In the room, the music was loud. Mikkelsen got the player-of-the-game helmet and wore it like a crown. Varga conducted the noise with a water bottle as a baton. I sat in my stall and started the long process of turning back into a civilian.
Markel waited for me in the hallway to the bus. He had his overcoat on and hands in his pockets. “Twenty-four minutes tonight,” he said.
“It was there to play.”
“It was.” He nodded. “Tell me when it’s too many.”
“I will.”
“You won’t. That’s why I asked.”
He walked toward the bus, footsteps even on the concrete. I got on the bus.
***
Rafe wore a tie.
He stood in the private room we had reserved at the back of the steakhouse when I came in, hands at his sides, dressed like a man awaiting sentencing. He wore a navy tie, knotted small and ferociously tight, with a white shirt ironed into submission.
Around him, twenty hockey players in quarter-zips and open collars were finding seats. Trier bounced on the balls of his feet with joy. “Rafe. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Rafe said flatly.
“Doesn’t he look beautiful?” Trier asked no one in particular. “He looks like he’s selling us a mutual fund. Sit by me. I want people to think I have a lawyer.”
“Leave the kid alone,” Cross said from the head of the table. Cross had the seat he always took, and he nodded at the chair to his left. Rafe took it.
The tie lasted nine more minutes. Varga took it off him.
He arrived at the kid’s chair on his way back from the bar, set a Coke in front of him without being asked, and leaned toward his ear, speaking at a volume that could be heard around the table.
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to remove the tie. Not because they got to you. You’ve already won. You showed up dressed like a professional and these animals showed up dressed like retired golfers, and history will remember who had the better standards.”
Rafe took it off, folded it, and put it in his jacket pocket. Everyone applauded the retirement of the tie, and Trier called for a moment of silence.
The food came in waves. Cross told a story from his second year, which happened maybe twice a season and stopped the table cold both times. He talked about a coach so old-school that he fined guys for water breaks. “Guys were cramping in warmups, and he called it conditioning.”
“He’s a genius,” Pratt said. “I played for him in Belleville.”
Trier laughed so hard that Cross had to remind him to breathe.
Dinner broke up slowly. Cross settled the bill. Rafe shook the restaurant manager’s hand on the way out, and Varga told the manager, that one’s going to be a captain, get the photo now. The kid blushed pink to his hairline.
While everyone filed out, Varga’s hand landed flat on my back, between my shoulder blades. It wasn’t a brush; it was a deliberate touch, and it stayed for one full second.
I walked out into the Philadelphia cold, thinking: He’s done waiting. He’s just deciding where.
A text came twenty minutes later, while I sat on the edge of my bed.
Varga: when we hit Buffalo. last night of the trip. stay till one. i want the hour.
He was making an appointment.
***
The room before a second game in two nights is different. It’s quieter and older. Even the kids feel it in their legs. Rafe did everything at three-quarter speed with a furrow of concentration.
Markel’s address was four sentences long. “Their building, their energy, first ten minutes. We don’t chase the game. It comes to us if we’re patient, and we are. Wall and out, short shifts, make them earn all sixty.”
We made them play sixty-three and a half, and I was on the ice for twenty-six of them.
The first period, the legs lie to you. They feel close enough to normal that you trust them.
During the second period, truth enters. There’s a moment in every back-to-back when the message you send your legs comes back unanswered.
Mine happened eight minutes into the second.
I lost the puck clean, and their winger walked it up the wall.
I took a hooking penalty for trying to fix with my stick what my feet should have handled.
The team killed the penalty. Pratt was phenomenal. We scored on the next shift, and the building was suddenly quiet.
Discipline is what you rely on when the legs are gone. It’s positioning instead of pursuit. I stopped closing on men and started arriving where they were going.
They tied it with six minutes left on a faceoff loss and a screen. We headed into overtime.
Three-on-three is a game for young men, but Markel sent me anyway. I survived two shifts. The end came when I dove to take a pass away. The shooter shot. Pratt got a piece, but only a piece.
Horn. Lights. The crowd’s cheering shook the building.
The room was deathly quiet, like a library on a Monday morning. Markel came in and said, “That’s a hard sixty-three and we’ll take the point—bus in thirty.”
Varga found me in the corridor, in the stretch past the cameras where the carpet starts. He’d dialed down to half-volume. He bumped his bag once against mine.
“Hey. Is everything alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Bus,” he said, and bumped one knuckle against my elbow on his way past. When he caught up to a knot of teammates, he started up again. “Rafe, that release, I want it studied. I want it in a lab.”
***
The charter carried us into Buffalo in the wee hours of the morning. Our room keycards waited in envelopes on a table in the hotel lobby. Varga was four men ahead of me at the elevators. When the doors opened on our floor, he walked to his room and I walked to mine. Our goodnight was barely a nod.
I should have slept. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed with the lamp off and decided it was time to keep the promise I’d made to myself.
I’d drafted a message on the plane, in my head. It was time to type it into my phone.
Rook: Daniel. A request about the piece. Leave Varga out of it. Don’t call him, don’t quote him, nothing with his name near it. The rest of the room is fine. I’ll give you whatever you need in the second session to cover the gap. This one thing isn’t negotiable for me.
I sent it and set the phone on the nightstand. I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark with my forearms on my knees.
The phone lit up.
Kovac: Understood. He’s out—no call, no mention. You have my word.
The dots came back. He had more to say.
Kovac: For what it’s worth: he was the interview I was looking forward to. Everyone in that room talks about you. He’s the only one I expected to actually answer my question. Goodnight, Mattias.
The only one I expected to actually answer the question. That was the whole point. Varga’s answer was the threat.
It was 2:25 in the morning. I looked at the thread with Varga.
Varga: when we hit Buffalo. last night of the trip. stay till one. i want the hour
I was finally ready to answer. We would have one more night in Buffalo before heading home.
Rook: okay.
The dots came up immediately. He’d been lying in bed awake.
Varga: one oclock. no takebacks.