Page 50 of Slapshot Baby

By the time I’m done, Kai is standing by the mantle staring at the championship photo I placed there a while back.

"We could try your phone," I say.

He looks at me.

"Your photos, your texts. Four years of conversations are sitting in that phone. Reading your own words might shake something loose."

He pulls the phone from his pocket and hands it to me like it's a grenade with the pin half out.

I sit on the couch. He sits beside me. I open his camera roll and scroll back.

There are hundreds of photos. The team on a bus. A sunset from what looks like a hotel balcony. A blurry shot of Wyatt asleep on a plane with marker drawings on his face.

"That one seems important," I say, tilting the screen.

"Wyatt would kill whoever did that."

"Whoever did that was probably you, captain."

His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay flat. He's looking at the photos the way you'd look at someone else's vacation slides.

I swipe further. A photo of Kai and Theo in suits at some formal event, both holding whiskey glasses. Kai's grinning. Theo's beard is shorter.

"Anything?"

"No."

A photo of Kai on the ice, mid-stride, the arena packed behind him. The C on his jersey is visible. The lighting is sharp, professional. His face is pure focus.

"That's a good photo of you," I say.

"It doesn't feel like me."

I scroll to his texts. I shouldn't be reading his private messages, but he handed me the phone and hasn't asked for it back.

I find a thread with someone named Coach B. I open it.

Dozens of messages. Strategy discussions, lineup questions, the occasional dry exchange that reads like two men who respect each other but would never say so.

One message from Kai, dated eight months before the accident, reads: I'll handle Wyatt. He listens when I don't yell.

"That sounds like you," I say softly.

Kai reads it over my shoulder. His breathing gets slower, more controlled.

I scroll down. A message from Kai to someone named Jordan.

Kai:

Thanks for covering that shift. I owe you one.

Jordan:

Damn right you do. I accept cash, alcohol, and introductions to hot women.

I glance at Kai.

“Jordan has a bit of a reputation,” he says.