Page 63 of Home Ice

I danced once with Ma. She didn’t have to teach me the steps. She’d already done that twenty years ago in the kitchen with me standing on her feet.

Between the time with Ma and the exchange with Rafe, it was one of the best nights I’d known in recent history. It was a great evening for those in attendance, too. The wing got its funding, and the world saw Max and Rafe at a major event.

On the way back to their house, Ma recapped the entire night to Dad. She’d taken her shoes off in the backseat and smiled all the way.

“The chicken was better than at Eleni’s wedding,” she said to me. “Don’t tell Eleni’s mother I said that.”

“When would I tell her that, Ma?”

“Don’t tell anyone. You’d be surprised how things travel.” She handed back my pocket square. “Two million dollars for the little hearts. People can be wonderful, you know. Sometimes they forget how they can be.”

“It was a good night,” Dad said.

“And the boys,” Ma added. “When they came into the room together, everyone stopped what they were doing, Niko. My mother cleaned offices two blocks from the Palmer House, and now Max walked in the front door with cameras flashing. You were at the table with me when it happened. Both of my boys. I’ll remember this night.”

The shop was dark when I got back. I didn’t turn the lights on. I stood in the streetlight coming through the storefront glass, and at the end of the bench, square to the edge, the block plane remained where Rafe put it.

I read the cimbalom thread once more on the stairs.

Three days passed, and I made progress on the blanket chest. Max and Rafe were all over social media and even a mention in the Chicago Tribune.

I was sawing the last of the white oak when my phone buzzed. Then it buzzed three more times in quick succession. I assumed they were all from Max. When I looked, they weren’t, but they were about Max—and Rafe.

Chapter fifteen

Rafe

Coach Markel had three cones out for a new wrinkle in the bump-back.

“Again,” he said. “Rafe, this time the bump’s not there. Heath’s covered. Show me what else you’ve got.”

I hugged the wall and hit the line, while Rook covered Heath. I held the puck a half-second longer, let the defensive pressure declare itself, and slipped it back through my feet to Varga trailing late. He walked into the space everyone had vacated and sent the puck past Pratt, under the crossbar.

“THAT’S the play,” Varga announced. “That’s the best play all season. I’m finally seen.”

“He didn’t see you,” Heath said. “He saw Rook.”

“He saw the absence of options and knew I was the remaining smart choice. That’s vision.”

“Gather in for water,” Coach Markel said.

At the boards, Trier glided in beside me with his bottle. “Peaches has her follow-up in two days. It’s just blood work.”

“You need me to take her?”

“No, but I’ll tell you the results when I get them. I want you to have the context. You’re on the distribution list now. It’s not a small thing. Cross isn’t there.”

“I asked to be removed,” Cross said, skating past.

“He asked to be removed,” Trier agreed. “It’s a curated list.”

We ran the new play four more times. The last time through, Rook jumped the fake bump, and the door behind him stood open. I went through it, and Pratt had no chance.

“Okay,” Coach Markel said. “That’s it. Video at eleven.”

The horn sounded, and we skated toward the gate. My legs and hands both felt good.

Then the hallway was wrong.