Page 62 of Thin Ice

Brick's room was like every hotel room I'd seen him inhabit. His open gear bag spilled equipment onto the floor in the corner. The closet was open with a pristine suit hanging there. A family photo sat propped against a lamp on the nightstand because Jen made him promise. He would have done it anyway.

He sprawled in a chair by a desk, and I sat at the foot of the bed. "So," he said.

"There's a thing. I can't give you all of it."

"Okay."

"It's not really mine to share, and the less you know the better. I need you to be okay with that."

"Nolan. I've known forever. You never give all the details—at least not at first. Go."

I told him what I could.

"It goes back to my years in Carolina," I said. "I was a rookie down there. What happened was bad, and it's not over. It's connected to people that have been dying—"

Brick threw up his hands and interrupted me. "Whoa, bud, if you're going to tell me you're a serial killer—"

"Calm down." I shook my head. "This is serious, but it's not about me doing anything. I didn't tell you, but somebody was in my place during Game One. I can't share all the details, but I need to know at least one guy on the team understands if I'm not all there in my head."

Brick didn't say anything for a few moments. He stared at the carpet. Then, he gripped the arms of the chair and looked at me.

"The tall guy," he said. "He's in on this."

"Yes, he is."

"Good. Can he handle it?"

"I think so, but at first, he wasn't straight with me about why he's here. I found that out a few nights ago, the hard way. And he matters, Brick. That's the other thing I have to say out loud. He matters, but he lied, too, and I'm not quite sure how to hold both things in one hand."

It was out there now, sitting on the ugly hotel carpet between us.

Brick leaned back. "How serious is it?"

I didn't ask whether he meant Elias and me or he meant the three bodies because I know he meant all of it.

"Serious enough," I said.

He glanced at the family photo leaning against the lamp and then looked back at me.

"There's one thing I know about you," he said. "You never let anybody else carry anything. For twenty years, I've watched you haul every bag through the airport. So, I'm not going to tell you the lying is nothing, because it isn't. But I've seen all the rest, too. You can't fake the way you look at each other. So, that's not nothing either." He shrugged. "Anyway, you don't have to pick tonight. Both things can be true a while longer. Tomorrow, you have to play Game Six."

"That's all I get? That's the wisdom?"

"That's what you get. Jen has to wear a ring to get the good stuff."

He got up and walked to the window, pulling the curtain back a few inches. Streetlights glowed along the streets in the distance.

"You remember Winnipeg?" he asked. "The eleven-game skid?"

"You brought that up in the parking lot four days ago. Are you gonna wear it out?"

"Would I do that? You don't trust me because I couldn't stop talking about that goal that bounced off Wes's ass for a whole month. Anyway, I'm talking about the night the skid ended." He let the curtain fall back. "We won four-one in Calgary and nobody remembers it, because the only worse team than us that month was Calgary. Do you remember what you did after?"

"No."

"You bought the whole plane pizza. You had it delivered on the tarmac and fed twenty-six guys—players, coaches, and crew." He sat back down in the chair. "For ten years I've been waiting to ask you. We'd won one lousy hockey game. Why the pizza?"

I thought about it. The honest answer surfaced, and I hadn't thought about it for years. "Everybody'd stopped eating together," I said. "Somewhere in the skid, guys started taking food to their rooms and eating alone. I couldn't fix the hockey, but I could fix that."