Chapter 7
"Explain to me again why we're here?"
Natalia glared at the ice like it had offended her.
I didn't answer.
"You hate crowds," Natalia continued. "You hate loud noises. You hate—" She gestured at the ice, where players were warming up in matching red and white jerseys. "Whatever this is."
"It's hockey."
"I know it's hockey. What I don't know is why we're watching it." She turned to look at me. "You don't do things without reasons, Joel. So what's the reason?"
On the ice, a player with red hair was skating lazy circles near the goal. He looked different in full gear, broader and more armored, his face half-hidden behind a helmet. But I'd recognize the way he moved anywhere.
"Research," I said.
"Research."
"Cross-training perspectives. Hockey players have excellent edge work."
Natalia stared at me. I kept my eyes on the ice, watching the opposing team run drills. Number 44 had a hitch in his stride, favoring his right ankle. The goalie cheated left on high shots. Their enforcer telegraphed every check with his shoulders.
I filed all of it away without trying. I couldn't turn it off if I wanted to.
"You're a terrible liar," Natalia said finally.
The buzzer sounded. The players cleared the ice, disappearing into their tunnels, and the lights dimmed for the anthem. I stood with everyone else, hand over my heart, not really seeing the flag on the jumbotron.
I shouldn't be here. I had a program to refine, a Grand Prix Final to prepare for, a career that didn't leave room for distractions.
The anthem ended. The crowd roared. The players came back onto the ice.
I stopped pretending I was here for any reason other than him.
Red was in the starting lineup. He took his position at center ice, crouched low, stick ready. The referee dropped the puck, and the game exploded into motion.
I'd seen hockey before, mostly highlights on television or clips during Olympic years. I understood the basic mechanics: get the puck, put it in the net, don't die in the process.
I hadn't understood what it looked like when someone was extraordinary at it.
Players moved in bursts and collisions, sticks cracking against the ice, boards rattling with every check. It was chaos, beautiful and brutal, and somewhere in the middle of it was Red.
He was smaller than everyone else on the ice. I'd known that intellectually. Seeing it was different. He looked like he should get crushed.
Instead, he made them look slow.
Thirty seconds in, he stole the puck from a defenseman twice his size.
Not by overpowering him but by reading where the man was going to move before the man knew it himself, sliding his stick into exactly the right gap at exactly the right moment.
The defenseman spun around looking for the puck, and Red was already gone.
"Oh," Natalia said quietly. "I see."
"Watch the game."
"I'm watching." Her voice was mild, which meant she was going to be insufferable about this later. "He's good."
Good was the wrong word.
Red read the ice like I read music. He anticipated where the puck would be before it got there, positioning himself in spaces that only existed for a fraction of a second.
He wasn't the biggest or the fastest, but he was always in the right place, and when he had the puck, everything else fell away.
He stripped another forward. A minute later, he took a pass at full speed and deked around a defender so cleanly that the man fell trying to follow. Red kept moving, threading the puck to a teammate who had a clear shot.
The shot went wide. The play was perfect.
I leaned forward without meaning to.
This was the version of him I hadn't seen. Not the hungover mess on the locker room bench, or the man who'd raced me. This was Red in his element, the thing he'd built himself into. I recognized it because I'd built something too.
The heat in my chest had nothing to do with the crowd.
The first period ended scoreless. Red had been on the ice for most of it, and he'd taken two hits that made my teeth ache. Both times he'd bounced off the boards and kept skating. Both times he'd come back harder.
"He's tiny," Natalia observed. "Compared to the others."
"He's better than all of them."
She raised an eyebrow at my tone but didn't comment.
"He's reckless," she said instead, tilting her head at the jumbotron replay of Red threading between two defenders. "He plays like he's got something to prove."
Everyone had something to prove. Red just did it louder than most.
The second period started. I kept my eyes on number 44.
It took me until the third hit to understand what was happening.
The Falcons' number 44 was built like a refrigerator. The first time he caught Red, it looked incidental, just a collision near the boards that sent Red down hard on his left side. His bad side.
Red got up and kept playing. Two minutes later, he stripped the puck from a forward and started a breakaway that ended with a shot off the crossbar.
The second time, Red didn't have the puck. Number 44 changed direction to intercept him anyway, driving into Red's hip with enough force that the sound carried to the stands.
Red got up slower this time. His hand went to his hip for just a second before he caught himself and skated gingerly back to the bench. Even hurt, he was still the fastest player on his line.
44 skated back to position. That right ankle again. A clean hit at the right angle, and he'd be off the ice for weeks.
I'd never played hockey. It didn't matter. Bodies worked the same way in every sport.
The third time, 44 came from the blind side. Red tried to dodge and almost made it, but 44 adjusted, throwing an elbow that caught Red in the ribs and sent him spinning into the corner.
Red crumpled against the boards.
I was on my feet before I knew I'd moved.
The glass wasn't that high. Security was focused on the crowd, not on a well-dressed man in the third row. I could be over the boards and across the rink in seconds. I could put my hands on 44's throat before anyone understood what was happening.
I could make him stop smiling.
The thought was calm and clear, and that was the problem. I wasn't angry. Anger was hot and messy and made you sloppy. This was just information, the same way I processed every competitor's weakness.
44 was still smiling as he skated back to position. Red was still on the ice, shaking his head.
"That's not legal," I said. My voice came out wrong. "Is that legal?"
Natalia glanced at me. "I don't know. Is it?"
I didn't know either, but I knew what targeting looked like. My knuckles ached. I looked down and found my fists still clenched, nails cutting crescents into my palms.
The fourth time, 44 didn't even pretend. Red had just passed the puck, was watching it sail toward his teammate, when 44 cut across the ice and drove him into the boards from behind. Red's helmet bounced off the glass. The crowd erupted in boos.
Red went down and he didn't get up.
I was halfway out of my row when a Ristras player dropped his gloves.
The guy was massive, ARMIJO on his jersey, and he grabbed 44 by the collar before 44 could turn around.
Three hits, fast and brutal, blood spraying across the ice.
The crowd screamed approval. Armijo was already skating toward the penalty box, shaking out his hand, and he caught Red's eye on the way.
They nodded at each other.
"Joel," Natalia said quietly. "You look like you want to kill someone."
I do, I thought, and let her pull me back into my seat.
On the ice, Red was finally getting to his feet. He waved off the trainer, refused the arm that was offered, and skated gingerly back to the bench.
He was going back out there. Of course he was.
"You're in trouble," Natalia said.
I didn't argue.
Red went back out with 44 still in the penalty box. The Ristras had a power play, and Red took his position in the offensive zone, stick ready. He was favoring his left side, his weight shifted to compensate.
It didn't matter. He was still the best player on the ice, still reading the game three moves ahead.
The puck moved between his teammates. Red was already cutting toward the net, pulling a defender with him and opening up the lane. The shot came. The goalie blocked it. The rebound bounced loose.
Red was there.
He didn't wind up for a slapshot or try anything fancy, just jammed his stick at the puck, a quick, ugly jab that sent it skittering between the goalie's pads and into the net.
The arena exploded.
Red's teammates crashed into him, a pile of burgundy jerseys and raised sticks. The goal horn blared. The crowd was on its feet, screaming, and somewhere in the middle of it was Red.
I stayed in my seat. My hands still ached.
On the ice, Red was skating back to the bench. He looked up at the stands, scanning, and his grin widened when he found me.
He tapped his stick against the boards twice.
Then he lifted it an inch in my direction. The gesture was small, private, meant only for me, in the middle of ten thousand people who didn't know we existed to each other.
"You should go talk to him," Natalia said.
"It's the middle of a game."
"After."
I didn't answer. The third period started, and Red played through the pain he was pretending not to feel. He set up two more scoring chances. He blocked a shot that made my ribs ache in sympathy. He was everywhere at once.
The Ristras scored again, and then the Falcons answered. By the final buzzer, the score was 3-1.
The team mobbed each other on the ice. Red was in the middle of it, helmet off, hair dark with sweat, that grin still plastered across his face. Someone dumped water on his head. Someone else lifted him off his feet in a bear hug, and I thought about his hip, about how much that had to hurt.
I stood up.
"Where are you going?" Natalia asked.
"The parking lot."
"Joel." She grabbed my wrist. "What are you doing?"
I looked down at her hand, then at her face. "I don't know, but don't wait for me."
Red’s truck was in the player lot. The rust on the wheel wells looked worse under the parking lot lights. The bed was empty except for a bungee cord and an old blanket.
I leaned against the tailgate and waited.