Chapter 17
Gordon writes my name on the lineup board without circling it.
Fourth-line left wing. Limited deployment. Secondary penalty-kill option.
He caps the marker and looks at me from the front of the video room. The other players are already dressed from the waist down, shoulder pads and jerseys waiting at their stalls. My equipment is on, but the gloves remain tucked beneath my arm.
“This is not a restored role,” Gordon says. “It is a specific assignment.”
“I understand.”
“You take the wall on defensive-zone starts. You support the first exit. You stay above the puck unless the route requires you below it. On the penalty kill, you protect the lane we give you. You do not create a different job because somebody irritates you.”
A few players shift in their chairs. Nobody laughs.
Gordon points the marker at the board. “Position first. Gloves on. The next play is the answer.”
The words leave nothing coded behind them. No warning that opponents cannot take liberties. No suggestion that somebody needs to establish a cost. He names the hockey action and stops.
“If there is contact after the whistle?” I ask.
“Locate the official and leave. If an opponent targets a teammate?”
“Check the teammate,” I say. “Communicate. Stay in structure.”
“If the play remains active?”
“Take the legal route that helps the play.”
“And if you cannot tell which response I want?”
“I ask.”
Gordon nods once. “Your next shift depends on the decisions from your last one. Nothing else.”
The lineup board does not promise how many shifts I will receive. It gives me a place to begin and several ways to lose it.
Vincent stands beside the door with the captain’s letter already sewn into the jersey over his chest. “My support does not mean I approve every time you insert yourself.”
“I know.”
“It means I make the next play available. If you have the puck, I give you a route. If you are under pressure, I communicate. If somebody tries to turn you away from the game, I expect you to stay with us.”
He does not tell me the room believes in me. Belief would be easy to hear as permission.
Patrick sits across the aisle, tightening the tape around the top of one sock. The hit from the last game no longer restricts his movement, but I remember the position of his body against the boards more clearly than I remember the score.
Gordon looks toward him. “Tell Michael what you want if they target you.”
Patrick rests his forearms on his thighs. “Check whether I’m hurt. Tell me what pressure is coming. Leave me room to decide what I’m doing next.”
“No retaliation,” I say.
“No retaliation I did not ask for, and I’m not going to ask for it.” Patrick keeps his attention on me. “If I’m down, protect the lane so Irene can reach me. If I’m upright, make yourself available for the puck.”
“What if the hit is late?”
“Let the official see it. Make the next play hurt them.”
The phrase could have carried the old meaning once. Patrick points toward the board before I can assign one.
“Possession. Advantage. Scoreboard,” he says. “Those are the things I mean.”
“I understand.”
He stands and reaches for his jersey. “Good. I would like to finish a shift without being turned into your emergency.”
Nobody asks him to make the sentence gentler. He already told me what support looks like. My job is not to prefer a version that feels better.
I return to my stall and pull the jersey over my shoulder pads. The fabric catches against the back plate until I reach behind and free it. My right hand closes around the hem without the old stiffness, though the knuckle remains larger than it was before the fight.
Irene completed the final medical clearance after grip testing, contact progression, and repeated symptom checks. The clearance means my hand, jaw, ribs, and neck can tolerate game demands. It does not mean my body has been declared useful enough to keep.
The equipment staff member leaves my helmet on the shelf above me. No camera waits to record the moment I put it on. The room does not stop when I tighten the chin strap.
Nicholas leans across the aisle while securing one glove. “I have been asked to clarify that I support your return in a highly technical and emotionally unhelpful manner.”
“That sounds difficult for you.”
“It is exhausting. I prepared several encouraging insults and was told this was not the time.”
“Save them.”
“I have a filing system.”
Lucas passes behind us on his way toward the tunnel. He taps the heel of his goalie stick once against my left skate.
“Inside lane,” he says.
“Inside lane.”
“Rebound first.”
“Rebound first.”
He continues walking. That is all he needs from me.
The arena noise reaches the tunnel before the ice appears.
It comes through concrete and rubber matting as one continuous pressure, deeper than individual voices.
During warmups, the opposing end fills with signs and jerseys.
Their players circle through shooting lines and glance toward me often enough that no one can mistake curiosity for accident.
My name is announced with the starting scratches and returning lineup notes before the game. The response is mixed. Some of our crowd stands. Some people clap because I wear the home jersey. A smaller group near the visiting bench starts a chant tied to the second fight.
The words are not clever. They do not need to be.
I skate another lap, receive a pass, and put the puck low off Lucas’s right pad. He steers it to the corner. I turn through the rebound route instead of shooting again.
My body recognizes the sound around me. Shoulders rise. The grip tightens. My attention searches for the person making the threat even when no threat exists beyond noise.
I identify the nearest official preparing at center ice. I find our bench gate. I locate Patrick in the next shooting line and Vincent near the red line.
Information before action.
The notebook is not inside my equipment now, but the sequence remains.
When warmups end, I leave with the group.
Gordon holds the fourth line for the first several shifts. The game begins fast, with both teams taking away the middle and forcing pucks along the boards. The opponent sends its first line over the wall twice before I receive my first tap.
Gordon leans toward me. “Defensive-zone start. Left wall. Support the exit. Short shift.”
I swing one leg over the boards.
The faceoff is to Lucas’s right. Patrick takes the draw for the temporary line, and Nicholas takes the far wing. The opposing defenseman stands high enough to pinch if the puck reaches my side.
I set my skates inside the winger’s route rather than leaning into him before the puck drops. Patrick loses the draw backward, but our defenseman touches the puck first and rims it toward me.
The opposing winger arrives with speed.
The old answer is contact. Let the puck continue, put my shoulder through his chest, and establish who owns the wall.
I arrive first instead.
My left skate seals the boards. My stick meets the puck before his body meets mine. I absorb the pressure through my hips, keep the blade available, and look beneath the contact.
Patrick curls low through the middle.
I move the puck to him.
The winger tries to hold me against the boards after possession leaves. I turn through his grip rather than finishing him into the glass. Patrick carries through the first layer, feeds Nicholas near center, and our line exits together.
“Good wall,” Patrick calls.
I follow the rush without trying to overtake it. Nicholas enters wide, puts the puck behind their defense, and forces a turn. I take the inside route toward the loose puck but arrive half a step late. Their defenseman gains possession.
I have enough distance to finish him legally.
The contact would add nothing. His stick is already moving the puck.
I turn above him and recover.
Their exit reaches the neutral zone, where our defense closes the gap and sends it back in. Gordon calls for a change. I leave through the open gate with my gloves on and my breathing too high for the length of the shift.
Vincent touches the back of my left shoulder as I sit. “Outlet was early.”
“I could have held it longer.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Gordon marks something on the sheet in front of him. He does not say whether the route earned another shift.
The opponent’s bench begins testing the next time I am close enough to hear.
One player leans over the boards while I wait for a faceoff. “They put a leash on you, D’Amico?”
I look at the official setting his feet near the dot.
The player continues. “Must be rough needing permission now.”
The puck drops before I answer. I take the outside lane, remove his stick from the passing route, and force the puck carrier back toward the wall.
Our defenseman gains possession. I swing low for the outlet.
The same player catches me with both hands after the puck is gone. It is a shove rather than a hit, small enough to disappear inside ordinary traffic. My skates move a few inches, and the anger arrives before they stop.
I turn toward him.
He smiles through his mouthguard. “That all?”
The official is near the blue line with a clear view. Patrick is crossing through the middle with speed. Our defenseman still controls the puck below the goal line.
The urge gives me several answers at once. Drive him backward. Put a glove under his chest. Make the official choose between both of us.
The interval widens.
I turn away and put my stick on the ice.
The outlet reaches Patrick. He moves it through the middle, and I join the play late enough that I have to accelerate through the neutral zone. The opponent follows and hooks the back of my arm once, trying to pull my attention off the rush.
I keep skating.
The pass goes wide of me and reaches Nicholas. He enters the zone with Patrick driving the far side. I go toward the net, forcing the defense to account for my body without using it to punish anyone.
Nicholas shoots through the outside lane. The goalie blocks it to the corner. The shift ends without a goal, a penalty, or a fight.
My hands shake once after I sit.