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"Lindqvist?"

"Just one." I lean back against the stall. "Is there a dress code for the silent treatment, or is it more of a vibe⁠—"

"Get dressed," Halvorsen says, and walks out.

Somebody laughs then. Not with me.

Practice is a lesson in how many ways twenty-six guys can pretend you're not there.

Two-on-ones, my partner never passes. Line rushes, Halvorsen puts me on the fourth line with two freshmen who look scared to be seen breathing near me. In the battle drill along the boards, Red Beard, whose name turns out to be Gunnar, puts me into the glass hard enough that my lip splits against my mouthguard. The whistle doesn't come.

I get up. I spit pink on the ice. I grin at him.

"That all?"

He skates off.

Then it's the shooting drill, two lines, two goalies. The backup in the far net is a sophomore named Kasper who flinches when anyone winds up. The line at the near net is shorter because nobody wants to shoot on Dane.

I get in the near line.

First shot, I come down the wing and go far side, low, a good shot. Dane's pad is already there. He doesn't dive. He doesn't move more than he has to. The puck hits him and dies.

"That one had eyes," I tell him on my way past.

Nothing.

Second time I fake low and go high glove. He picks it out of the air like he's catching keys, drops it to his feet, and pushes it to the corner without looking at me.

"Show-off."

Nothing.

Third time I pull it to my backhand and try to tuck it under his pad, and he closes the gap so fast it's like the gap was never there. I hit pad. I hit post on the rebound. The guy behind me in line says "Jesus" under his breath, and not about me.

Eight shots. Eight saves. He doesn't say one word to me the whole time. Not when I chirp, not when I tap his pads with my stick, not when I stop in front of the crease and spray him with a little snow, which is a thing that gets people killed in some locker rooms.

He looks through me like I'm glass.

Back in the room there's music again, low, and conversation that goes quiet when I walk past. I peel off my gear. My lip's swelling. I can taste copper.

"Hey, Lindqvist."

The captain. Jace Pruitt, C on his practice jersey, clean-cut, the kind of guy who calls your mom ma'am. He's sitting on the bench in the middle with a towel around his neck.

"Real question. What does it feel like? Being on a team where nobody wants you?" He tips his head. "Oh, wait."

A few guys laugh.

I hold my hands up. "Look, I'd love to stay and do the whole history thing. Really. But it's day one, so let me save everybody some time." I nod up the room, toward the stall by the door. "Your goalie's reputation is built on some pretty weak conference shooters. I watched a lot of tape. I could score on him whenever I wanted."

The room goes dead.

Not quiet. Dead. The music's still playing and it sounds like it's coming from another building.

Dane sets the stick down.

He stands up, walks the whole length of the room, and stops in front of my stall. I'm sitting. He's standing. I don't get up, because getting up would mean he's worth getting up for.