Page 110 of Slapshot Baby

"Shame. You'd look horrible in a tutu, T. I’d like to see it."

"I would look incredible in a tutu. Don't test me, rook."

Easton retrieves the puck from the net and flips it into the air, catching it barehanded.

"Coach watched the film from yesterday," he says.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing to me, but he watched it twice.”

That’s worth something. Repeat viewing means Brennan caught something important.

I take another pass from Theo, this one slightly behind me, forcing a pivot. I adjust without thinking, the correction happening in my feet before my brain registers the problem. The shot is quick, tucked inside the post.

“Faster adjustment than most guys with full memories,” Jordan says with a smirk. “Kinda pisses me off, actually.”

"Don't compliment him," Wyatt warns. "His ego is already back from the coma. His personality can't take more."

"My personality is fine."

“Your personality is wack.”

I almost smile. Months ago, my teammates chose their words around me. They avoided references to the years I couldn't access, treating me like a fragile object.

Now Wyatt insults me to my face and Jordan passes me the puck instead of skating around me. Easton sends me game film at midnight with notes that assume I can process them.

They’ve stopped being careful.

“Shut up, Wyatt,” I say, but there’s no teeth in it.

He grins. “And he provides proof right there.”

Easton shakes his head. "Can we focus? Some of us have pickup times."

We run the drill set twice more. On the second set, Brennan appears at the far boards. He stands with his arms crossed, whistle hanging, watching without approaching.

His eyes track me through a defensive transition sequence. Full speed pivot, head up, stick in the passing lane.

"Clean your gap control on the back-check," he calls. "You're over-committing on the first read."

I adjust and run it again, tighter this time.

He watches the second pass, nods once, and leaves the ice without another word.

Wyatt raises an eyebrow at me. "That's the most he's said to you since the LTIR conversation."

It is. And the fact that it was a coaching note instead of a medical observation means the question has shifted from can he play? to how does he play?

I’ll take it.

The session runs another thirty minutes. By the time we step off the ice, my legs are burning and my lungs feel scraped raw.

The walk to the locker room trades cold air for warm, and the smell hits me before I reach my stall: menthol from someone's muscle rub, rubber tang of dried tape adhesive, the mint of Theo's gum cracking in its steady beat.

The mint triggers a memory of a long road trip on a bus. Someone asleep across the aisle with crooked headphones and a blanket bunched under their chin.

I close my eyes. The image holds for two breaths, then fades.