Page 17

The late-night flight to Pittsburgh was quiet. Most guys had their headphones in or were sleeping, heads tilted against windows, the exhaustion of a game and a loss settling into their bodies.

I sat by the window, my forehead against the cold glass, my reflection staring back at me. Unfocused and distracted.

Jeremy dropped into the seat next to me. His headphones hung around his neck, and he had a bag of almonds and two bottles of water, one of which he handed to me.

"Thanks," I said, opening the bottle and taking a swig.

"Welcome. Want to talk about it?" he questioned.

"About what?"

"About whatever's got you playing like it was your first day on the ice."

I rubbed my face with both hands. "I'm fine. It was a terrible game."

Jeremy nodded.

"Yep, you're allowed to have those. Every rookie does. Martinez had a stretch in his first year where he went six games without a single point. Briggs barely looked at him." He paused, cracking an almond between his teeth. "But you're not allowed to have terrible games because your head's somewhere else. Briggs can tell the difference. He watches your eyes. If your eyes are on the ice, he forgives the mistakes. But if he notices your concentration is off, then he questions whether you're worth the investment. I can tell you right now, Marshall, your eyes were somewhere else."

I looked at him. Jeremy had a way of being honest without making you feel you were being attacked. He delivered hard truths as if he were handing you a glass of water. That was why so many of the guys trusted him, why the coaching staff used him as a bridge between the bench and the locker room, and why I trusted him even though I'd known him for less than six months.

"It's nothing," I said. "It won't happen again."

He studied me for a second. Then he shrugged. "Okay. But if it's a girl—" He held up a hand before I could protest. "—and I'm not saying it is, but if it is, we've all been there. Ashford had a thing with a yoga instructor his second year that had him playing like he was skating through mud for two weeks. Even Ryan, steady, calm, the-ice-is-my-home Ryan, went through a stretch when his girlfriend was pregnant where he couldn't stop worrying long enough to track the puck. I think that was his worst season ever."

"What happened?"

"Well, Ashford figured his shit out. Ryan talked to his girlfriend about it, and once everything was out in the open he came back stronger than ever. The point is, it always works out better when you deal with whatever's bothering you instead of pretending it's not happening. Pretending only makes the fog thicker."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Do, because you have talent, real talent that this team needs. Don't allow something temporary to fuck it up."

He didn't wait for my reply. Instead, he put his headphones in and leaned back, closing his eyes, leaving me alone with his advice.

We landed in Pittsburgh in the early morning hours. We went straight to the hotel which was the usual road-trip setup: two queen beds, a roommate I barely knew, Chambers, the quiet right wing from Ontario, who fell asleep within five minutes of walking through the door, and a minibar I vowed I would not touch. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my body aching from the game and my mind refusing to shut down.

I kept thinking about what Briggs had said. Get your head in the game. A simple instruction in sports. Be where you are, think about what's in front of you, and let everything else go. I'd been doing it my whole life. I'd played through a strained hip flexor in college without missing a shift. I'd played through the stress of the draft and the uncertainty of free agency and the pressure of moving across the country. I'd always been able to compartmentalize, to put the non-hockey things in a box and close the lid and not open it again until the game was over. But Lillah Winters wasn't fitting into any compartment. She was leaking through the walls and seams. Through every gap I tried to patch, she came through, and I couldn't figure out if it was because she was that hard to forget or because some part of me didn't want to forget her.

I closed my eyes. Tomorrow's game against Pittsburgh, I'd play better. I'd focus and be the fast and aggressive player that the scouts had flagged and that the Enforcers had invested in. I would prove to them that tonight was a terrible game, then after this road trip, I'd figure out what I was going to do about Lillah.

We flew back to Boston two days later after beating Pittsburgh two in a row. I'd played better, still not great, though it was enough to earn a nod from Briggs, which was better than the alternative. The fog had lifted, or at least thinned. I'd spent the morning before the game watching replays in my hotel room, watching my tape from the Philly game, forcing myself to see every mistake and every hesitation.

It was almost eleven when I pulled into my driveway. The neighborhood was quiet, and most of the homes were already dark. I was tired and climbing out of my car, gym bag over my shoulder and keys in hand when I heard her behind me.

She was walking Cooper, her phone pressed to her ear. She was talking to someone as she walked by, laughing at something they'd said. Every single interaction I'd had with Lillah up to this point had been some variation of conflict, but I'd never once heard her laugh.

Cooper trotted alongside her on his leash, his tail swaying. Lillah hadn't seen me yet. I was standing beside my car in the dark, hidden in the shadows. I knew I should go inside and stop watching her like some kind of creep, but I couldn't move.

She was in her usual attire: sweats and an oversized hoodie. Her hair was down, hanging loose. I watched as Cooper pulled her toward a neighbor's yard, as if he were following a fresh scent trail. Lillah tugged him back gently and said something into the phone that made her laugh again as she rounded the curve at the far end of the street.

I was about to go inside when something caught my eye.

Across the street, a woman was walking a Rottweiler. She was fumbling with her phone, texting with one hand while the other held the dog's leash. She was so focused on her phone she wasn't paying any attention to the dog.

The dog drifted toward the front yard two houses down from mine. The leash slipped out of the woman's hand, and the dog trotted over to the edge of the yard, sniffed the grass, circled once, and squatted. The dog did its business on someone else's lawn. When the woman looked up and saw what was happening, she glanced around the street and then, without even pretending to reach for a bag, she grabbed the dog's leash and kept walking. She rounded the corner and disappeared as if nothing had happened.

I stood there, keys in hand, with my mouth open. Lillah was right. It wasn't Cooper who did his business in my yard. It had never been Cooper. It had been that Rottweiler, and Lillah had told me all about her, how she barely holds the leash half the time because her face is always in her phone. She had given me the answer, and I'd been too stubborn to listen.