Page 2 of Home Ice

“Well,” Trier said. He looked at me for a long moment, and I braced for a comment. “This explains the haircut not at all. I want to be clear about that. I’m still looking for answers about the haircut.”

A couple of guys laughed. Varga, next to me, leaned forward and whispered, just for me, “See?” Then he spoke at full volume to the room. “He still has a character flaw. He’s passing to Heath when I’m wide open.”

“You were not open,” Heath said.

Rook said nothing at all. He was across the room at his own stall, working at his laces, and when I glanced over, he was looking back at me with a slight smile on his face. He gave me a half-nod and went back to his skates.

My hands needed something to do, so I set my gloves up on the shelf of my stall and squared them to the edge until the cuffs sat even with the lip of the shelf. I had a strange feeling, a little like stepping off a plane after a long flight. You’re happy to know the ground is right where it should be, but your legs are still a little shaky, thinking there might be another step down.

Coach Markel stuck his head in the door. “Video in ten,” he said. “Second power play unit, especially.”

Everyone groaned and started to move. I got up and moved with them.

The designers of the practice facility’s video room understood hockey players. The chairs were comfortable enough to sit in for forty minutes, but not comfortable enough to sleep in. I took my usual seat, second row, and Varga dropped into the one beside me with a coffee he’d gotten from somewhere. I didn’t ask.

Coach Markel ran the session the way he ran everything: exactly forty minutes of material with no extra padding. He didn’t talk about the break being over or share a story about his holiday. The lights went down, and the power play from our last game before the holiday went up. He let it play for about eleven seconds before he paused it.

“Okay. Second unit. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“We don’t have the puck,” Trier said.

“That’s the ending. I’m asking about the beginning.” He walked it back. “Entries. We’ve been carrying it in soft all month, right into their pressure, and then we’re surprised when the pressure pushes back. That’s going to change. We’re going to a bump-back at the line. Rafe.”

I sat up straight.

“Your entry, December thirtieth.” The clip changed. There I was, carrying it up the wall, and I watched myself hit the line just as their defenseman stepped up. I didn’t force it. I pulled it back, found the bump to Heath, and we came in behind their pressure with all five guys attached.

“That,” Coach Markel said. “Whatever that was, that’s the entry now. You saw it close, and you didn’t argue with it. Half this team argues with it.” He looked around the dark room. “Don’t argue with a closed door. There’s always another door to open. Questions?”

I looked at the clip frozen up there, and I wrote bump-back at the line in my notes app. I tried to ignore the eyes focused on me.

“Question,” Varga said, raising his hand. “Play it for four more seconds.”

Coach Markel hit play and stopped after four seconds ticked off.

“There,” Varga said. “Freeze. Who is that in the middle of the ice, alone, unguarded, ready for a one-timer, waving his stick like he’s trying to land a plane?”

“It’s you,” said half the room.

“It’s me. And where does the puck go? To Heath. On the wall. I’m just saying, if we’re watching film, let’s watch all of it. Let’s have the entire conversation.”

“You had two guys sagging into your lane,” Cross said, from the front row, without turning around. “Mikkelsen made the right play. Next slide.”

That was that. Cross was captain. Varga slumped back and muttered something in Hungarian. Under it, he knocked his knee against mine—you good?—and I knocked back, yeah. The video continued for twenty more minutes.

The lights came up and chairs began scraping. Varga appeared at my side and clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on. Media’s in the hallway, and if you stand next to me nobody asks you anything. I’m very loud.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s a service I offer for free.”

Painted cinderblock lined the hallway outside the video room, with a sponsor board bolted to the wall. A dozen or so media stood in a loose semicircle under the lights they brought. Varga stood next to me, beaming.

They wanted him first. He waded in, and I stood just behind him in a little pocket of shadow thrown by his broad shoulders. The camera lights put out heat, a small dry summer you stepped in and out of, and the phones came up to chin height in a ragged row.

“Lucas, did you imagine the league would have such a positive response?”

“No.”