Empty Net (The Power Play #7)

Nolan

Itape my stick the same way I have for fourteen years.

Two wraps at the heel. Overlap by a quarter inch.

Wrist roll to the toe, tight, no bubbles.

Finish with a fold-under so the edge doesn't catch on the ice.

The tape is white because the tape has always been white.

I am not a man who changes things that work.

The locker room is loud around me. It's always loud. Four years in this building and I still haven't gotten used to the volume of it, the way the noise expands to fill every corner like a gas leak, except the gas is Jonah Park and the leak is his mouth.

"I'm just saying," Jonah is saying to nobody in particular, "if you haven't tried the pad see ew from the place on Peachtree, you haven't tried pad see ew. You've tried sadness in noodle form."

Nobody asked. Nobody has to ask.

Three stalls down, Cole is retaping his shin pads. Mik is next to him. Mik's hand is on Cole's knee. Not gripping, not holding. Just resting. Neither of them has acknowledged it. The hand is not an event.

I look at the hand. I look away.

Wes is across the room. Quiet. Hands folded. Scarred knuckles, wrestler's grip. Wes has decided that most words are overpriced. I have never disagreed with him about this. We have never discussed this agreement, which is how I know it works.

Callahan stands in the doorway, built like a fire hydrant, clipboard tucked beneath one arm. "Two minutes."

I finish the tape. I flex my hands. The knuckles are swollen. They're always swollen now. Fourteen seasons of blocking shots, absorbing contact, gripping a stick until my fingers stopped noticing. My hands look like they belong to a man fifteen years older than I am. The rest of me is catching up.

I pull on my gloves. Stand. The hip tightens on the first stride, then loosens.

This is the negotiation. Every morning, every warmup, every first shift: the hip announces its terms and I accept them and we proceed.

The terms have gotten worse each season.

Three years ago the hip asked for five minutes.

Now it asks for ten. Next year it will ask for something I can't give.

There is no next year. I know this the way I know the defensive breakout pattern, the way I know the weight of my stick. I know it as a fact I've filed and have not opened.

The tunnel. The walk to the ice. The sound changes here. The building opens up and the crowd noise comes in from above, a wash of sound that is specific to October: excited, expectant, forgiving. October crowds forgive everything. By March they'll be calculating your plus-minus while you skate.

The ice. The first stride is the best stride.

I've been doing this since I was four years old, since my father flooded the backyard in Bemidji and handed me skates that were two sizes too big and said, "Figure it out.

" I figured it out. Thirty-one years. The ice does not get old.

The ice doesn't ask questions. The ice doesn't wonder why a thirty-five-year-old defenseman from Minnesota has never brought anyone to a team dinner.

First period. I play my minutes. The hip holds.

The brain works: I read the forecheck two seconds before it arrives, I angle the forward to the boards, I make the first pass clean.

The body is slower. The brain compensates.

I've been making this trade for three years, selling speed and buying intelligence, and the exchange rate is getting worse.

Second period. A turnover at the far blue line. I pivot to recover. The turn is where it happens. Not a collapse, not a failure. Just: a turn I used to make in one stride now takes two. Nobody in the building notices. The forward doesn't beat me. I recover, make the play, get the puck out.

One extra stride. The margin between fine and finished.

I sit on the bench after the shift. Drink water.

Watch the game. Callahan doesn't look at me.

Callahan is not looking at me specifically, which means the coaching staff has had a conversation about my workload that I was not invited to.

I know this because I've been in professional hockey for fourteen years and the conversation about the veteran's minutes always happens, and the veteran is always the last to know.

Third period. Two assists. Twenty-one minutes of ice time. We win 3-1.

Callahan gives me one nod when I come off after the final shift. Not praise. Callahan does not spend praise freely. More like confirmation: you did the job. I nod back because that is the part I understand. Do the job. Receive the nod. Leave before anyone asks what it cost.

The locker room is loud again. I shower, dress, pack my bag.

Luca puts a biscotti on my shelf. The biscotti has been appearing on my shelf for four years.

I have never asked where it comes from. I know where it comes from.

I have never thanked him. He has never required it.

Some people receive love better when it is anonymous and wrapped in wax paper.

I eat the biscotti while I tie my shoes. Pecan. The sugar leaves a grit on my fingers.

The hallway. Gerald's desk. I pass this desk every day we're in this building. Gerald is seventy-something, maybe older, built like a man who was once enormous and has settled comfortably into old age. He's been here since before I arrived. He'll be here after I leave.

"Morning," Gerald says. It's 10:17 PM.

"Morning," I say.

This is the entire conversation. Four seasons of repetition. Two words. I have never stopped at the desk. I have never said a third word. Gerald has never asked for one.

I walk to the parking deck. My truck is where I left it. Same spot, every day. I tape my stick the same way, eat standing at the counter, sleep on the left side, watch film until midnight.

The apartment is dark. I turn on one light. The kitchen. I heat leftover pasta. Eat standing at the counter. Wash the plate. Put it away.

I stand in the kitchen with my hands on the counter and I think about the turn in the second period.

One extra stride.

Last year it was half a stride. The year before that, the turn was automatic. Three seasons of measurement. Three seasons of watching the margin shrink. The math is simple and the math is cruel and the math does not care that I am not ready.

I turn off the light. The apartment goes dark. I go to bed. The bed is large. No one has ever stayed in it long enough to disturb the other pillow. This is the amount of life that doesn't require explanation.

One extra stride.

Same thought every night. Different distance.

I close my eyes. I do not think: this is my last season.

I think: one more stride than last year.

I know what that means. I am not ready to translate it.