Page 43 of Thin Ice

***

We had a two-day break before Game Five. The first day's practice was light and easy on purpose. The coaches called it optional, but most of the team was there. We needed to prove we were fine and nobody was panicking.

I showed up because the hip does better moving than sitting. I didn't want to be alone in the condo.

The rookies ran a shootout for coffee money, and Misha robbed every one of them.

"Too honest," he told Jamie, who'd twice tried the same corner and been read both times. "Your eyes go where the puck goes. You look, then you shoot. I only have to watch your face. Very sweet. Bankrupt, but sweet."

Jamie said something about mixing it up next time.

"No," Misha said kindly. "You will not."

He was right. Jamie aimed for the same side again on his last one and skated back to the line, owing the room a tab of oat-milk lattes.

He was still laughing when I noticed his stride. Jamie had taken a hard hit near the end of Game Four. He skated with a hitch he thought nobody could see, keeping his left arm tucked on the stride. When he shot, the follow-through stopped a foot short of where it usually finished.

Petey asked him about it at the bench. I was close enough to hear.

"It's good," Jamie said. "Little stiff. I'm ready to go."

Petey nodded and moved on because Jamie gave the right answer.

I stayed where I was, leaning on the boards, and watched the kid steer his shoulder around and go back to snapping pucks. It's good, little stiff, ready to go. It was the same answer any of us would have given. He couldn't sit out a Cup Final.

Ask him the follow-up, I thought. Ask what "little stiff" means.

I didn't. I stood there and let the reasons stop me: Petey's got it, it's a bruise, he's twenty-two. Everyone was reasonable.

Jamie buried a shot top shelf and looked over to see if I'd been watching. I nodded. He grinned and lined up another puck.

A columnist caught me at the glass on my way off the ice. He was the guy who quoted equipment managers.

"Game Five is a bounce-back game," he said. "You've played hundreds of those. What's the secret to answering the bell?"

He asked about the mind, and mine went straight to the body, because for me they'd never been two different things.

"Pain's part of the job," I said, and stopped.

He waited, expecting more.

"You show up," I said. "That's the whole secret. Sorry, I owe Petey ten minutes."

I didn't owe Petey anything, but I'd already said more than I intended.

***

Elias walked me over to Hannah's a little after eight. It was three blocks, and he looked at everything along the way: parked cars, porches, and the gangways between buildings.

At one corner, a small man stood waiting on an enormous dog who was nosing at a tree. It was a shaggy black beast with a tail that wagged at the sight of us.

"Baxter," Elias said to the dog, not the man. He got a full-body wag in return. The man lifted two fingers off the leash, and Elias lifted two back.

At Hannah's building, he stopped.

"I'll come back at eleven," he said. "Text if you're ready to leave sooner."

"You could come in. She'll feed you."