Page 61 of Gave Proof Through the Night

Downtrodden, we just skate off, and don’t stick around for the three stars, but I hear my own name over the tunnel speakers on my way to the locker room instead of on the ice.

Second star. One goal, one assist, and I still can’t stop thinking about her.

The locker room is quiet. That loss didn’t have to happen. Dante sits by his stall peeling tape off his stick, fourteen penalty minutes’ worth of regret on his face.

“Fourteen minutes, man,” Stone says, shaking his head and dropping onto the bench beside him. “You trying to set a record?”

“He hit me first.”

“Only because you chirped.” Stone claps him on the shoulder pad. “Ice it. We’ll get ’em Friday.”

Badaszek doesn’t say much on his way through, just a hand on a few shoulders, mine included, and a low “Two points tonight. Good game” that I’ll take, because I know for a fact he doesn’t say it when he doesn’t mean it.

Levi drops down across from me, still half in his gear, unwinding tape off his wrist in one long strip. “Houlihan again,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“You’ll get him Friday.”

“I better.” He balls the tape up and throws it, missing the bin by a foot. Somebody two stalls down floats a whole game plan for Friday that boils down to “let Josh block everything again,” and nobody in the room has a better idea.

My phone lights up in my stall, the CC Boyz group chat lighting up with it.

Fletcher: 2-2 slapper?? traitor’s still got hands I guess

Hartley: told you leaving us would make you soft. clearly did not

Mitchell: proud of you man. Still on my honeymoon, in case anyone forgot

I type out a reply about the absolute bedlam that was Mitchell’s wedding, delete it, type out something about the goal instead, delete that too, and put the phone away without sending anything, because there’s exactly one person I actually want to talk to tonight and she isn’t in this chat.

I sign autographs outside in a hoodie and sneakers, hair still wet. A line of nine-year-olds who want signatures on programs is waiting for me and the other players. The line snakes halfway down the block, parents holding phones up like torches, somebody’s little brother asking if I know Josh personally like Josh is the famous one tonight. I like this part. I like it even tonight after a brutal loss.

A guy in a flag-print polo waits until I’ve signed his kid’s jersey to lean in like we’re sharing a secret.

“Heck of a season for America’s birthday, huh?” he says. “Funny, though. During the celebration. Flags going up in the stands that weren’t exactly, you know. American.”

I keep my expression exactly where it’s been all night. “I saw those. Nice to have fans from all over the world.”

“I’m curious about your goal song.” He says it like it’s the mystery of the century. “Didn’t catch the words. What language was that?”

“Spanish.” I hand his kid the pen back. “It’s a Ricky Martin song. You should look up the lyrics, they’re actually about dancing.”

I decide not to open the can of Ricky-Martin-is-technically-American worms. That flying to Puerto Rico is considered domestic travel. That it doesn’t matter anyway because I was born in Miami to Mexican parents and I love both countries.

“Just seems like a strange choice,” he says, not letting it drop. “During the two hundred fiftieth."

I just smile. That media smile I’ve seen my mother do a thousand times during TV interviews. “Have a good night, man.”

He doesn’t take the hint. “I’m just saying, some of us take the anniversary pretty seriously.”

I move on down the line and sign the next kid’s program, and the one after that, and by the time the line thins out, flag-polo guy is gone, and I offer up a little prayer for that poor kid of his.

When I arrive at the Four Seasons, the bar is still rockin' full of hockey players and league people. I take a table in the corner, order a seltzer because I don’t want anything blurring tonight, and down it in one go. I’m contemplating ordering another when Jayce Brady stops by with a beer in hand.

“Mind if I join you?” He tips his chin at the empty chair.

I gesture at it instead of answering, a quiet nod to the unspoken code back in Milan. Other Olympians are always welcome to the table. Even though we’re on opposing teams now, the code still stands.

Brady drops into the chair and lifts his glass. "Congrats on second star." Then he snorts a barely-concealed snicker. “Even though your team lost tonight.”