Page 10 of Thin Ice

"Somebody had to." I signed the shoulder and handed it back up.

"My dad cried at the horn."

"I did not cry." He was protesting too much.

"He cried in the car, too."

"Okay, bud. We're done," the dad said.

I grinned as they backed away.

I shook every hand I could reach and smiled until the muscles in my face quit. By the time I shut the condo door behind Elias and me, I'd had about all the being-loved I could take in one day.

The next morning I was awake and down on the bedroom floor at a quarter to five, a lacrosse ball wedged under the hip. I was breathing through the slow work of talking the joint into another day when the phone lit up on the nightstand.

Nobody called about good news at that hour. The name on the screen stopped me.

Eileen Danaher.

I pulled the phone to my ear. "Eileen."

"Nolan, I'm sorry to call so early." Her voice was steady. "I didn't want you hearing it first on the internet or TV."

I knew. She didn't have to say it, but I remained quiet and let her speak.

"Vern passed away in the night. It was peaceful, in his sleep. The nurse found him a little after four."

"Eileen, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you. He wasn't in pain at the end. They promised me that, and I believe them." She took a breath. "He watched you clinch. Well, most of it. He fell asleep in the chair before the third and never saw the horn, but I didn't have the heart to wake him." She sniffed. "I keep thinking I should've woken him."

"You let him rest. That was the right choice."

Vern Danaher was the man who scored the goal. Everyone in the city knew which one. It was overtime in Game Seven of the 1986 Cup Final. It was St. Louis's one and only Stanley Cup. The riverboat whistle blew in the arena for nine full minutes.

Forty years on, they still ran the clip of the goal before every home game. I dressed in Vern's old stall, assigned to it on my first day with the team. Misha told me whose it had been, whispering like it mattered.

He'd asked me to lunch in my second season in St. Louis. It was a Tuesday at a diner on Manchester. Between the coffee and the eggs, he told me he was dying—a slow blood disease. He had a request for me. Look in on Eileen when it's time. The suits forget the old men, and she won't ask anybody for anything.

I'd said yes. Then I started driving to their place on off-days to sit with him. I'd kept it up for two years.

I never told anyone. It wasn't really a secret. I just never had a reason to bring it up, and it was a quiet part of my week that belonged to me. It was a few hours of hockey stories and a fresh-baked plate of cookies from Eileen.

"I'll come out," I said. "This morning, if that's all right. Tell me when."

"You don't have to do that. You've got—" She stopped herself. "You've got the whole world needing you right now."

"I'll come out this morning."

She didn't argue. "Come at ten," she said. "There'll be coffee and too many people, but I'll be happy to see you."

After the call, I stayed on the floor with my back against the bed and the bad leg straight out in front of me. Elias appeared in the doorway.

"Bad call?" He could read it on my face.

"An old friend died, Vern Danaher. He captained the '86 team." I gripped the mattress and started the business of standing, not bothering to hide any of it. "I'm going out to his place this morning to see his wife."

"I'll drive you."