Page 36 of Home Ice

“Where’s your rag?”

“To the left of the sink.”

He ran the water hot and kept it away from the pan. He wet the rag and worked the salt around the bottom in the same steady circles he’d been putting into that cherry board an hour ago. Then he set the skillet on the burner and lit it, watching while the skillet steamed itself dry.

“You learned from your mother,” I said.

“She’d have taken my hand off if I ran water in it.” He watched the pan. “We had one that came from my dad’s side. She used to say if she caught soap in it, we’d all be eating out of a Dutch oven till our funerals.”

“So, you already knew the value of age in cast-iron.”

“I did, but I wanted to hear you tell it.”

Rafe waited until the steaming stopped and killed the flame. “Thanks for the dinner. I need to go.” He headed for the door and slipped on his jacket.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“And thanks for the plane. I’m going to think about that for a week.”

I opened the door.

“Thursday was good,” he said. Then he headed down the stairs.

The truck started. The lights swung across the glass as Rafe pulled onto the street.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Max: news from the ministry of Ma

Max: Sunday dinner. Ma’s doing the whole thing. Lamb, the good pans down off the top shelf, the tablecloth that only comes out for people she’s trying to impress.

Max: You know why, too. Rafe is coming. Ma called him. HERSELF. she got his number from me under false pretenses that I only understood in hindsight, like all great cons

Max: transparency is the foundation of brotherhood so I’m telling you now: there will be questions at that table and I will be deflecting NONE of them. I’ve been deflecting all week. I’m tired. you’re on your own

I crossed over to the living room couch and sat down.

Niko: I’ll bring the pad for the chair. Tell Ma to stop calling my clients.

Max: he’s not your client

I thought about that and didn’t have an answer for it.

Niko: Good night, Max

Chapter nine

Rafe

The lane to Cross opened for about as long as it takes to blink, and I didn’t use it. I’d come up the right wall with the puck on my stick and their weak-side defenseman already sliding over to take the middle away. The safe play was the dump. The team wanted the dump.

I hit the blue line and pulled it back instead.

Heath was there because Heath is always there. He took the bump and moved it low. Varga put it back to the point. The point shot came through a screen, and I got a stick on it two feet in the air and redirected it into the far side of the net.

Our fans roared. Varga barreled into me and yelled something in Hungarian directly into my ear.

“That’s the read,” Cross said, banging my helmet. “You have the read every time.”