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Dannebrog comes out of the equipment room with his gloves under his arm, sees me looking at the board, and doesn’t slow down. “It’s a look. Just for today.”

“Who asked for it?”

“Nobody asked for it. I’m the captain. I want to see both of you at second. You had Friday. Greeley gets today.”

“Did he talk to you?”

Dannebrog stops walking. “He said he wanted a fair shot. That’s all he said. Is that a problem?”

For the team.

“No,” I say.

“Good. Get dressed.”

The skate goes bad for Greeley almost immediately, because Rafe is on his right wing and Rafe is not happy about it, and he makes that clear from the first drill. Greeley calls for the puck on the breakout, loud, the way I did Friday, and Rafe looks right at him and carries it himself. Greeley calls again at the blue line. Rafe cuts inside, drags it around a defenseman, shoots from a bad angle, and scores.

Greeley skates up to him. “I was open.”

“I know,” Rafe says. “I scored.”

Next rep, same thing. Rafe doesn’t pass to Greeley once, not on the breakout, not on the rush, not on the cycle. He scores twice more by himself, and each time he skates back past Greeley without looking at him. On the third, Koda bangs his stick on the ice from the other wing and yells, “Waleska!” like he’s cheering at a game.

Dannebrog blows the whistle. “Waleska. Use your center.”

“My center’s slow.”

“Use him.”

Rafe looks at Greeley, then at Dannebrog. “When he’s worth using,” he says, and skates back to the line.

From the third line, with two juniors who keep drifting too high, I watch it happen. Greeley is still good. He makes the right calls in the right places. But a center is only as good as his wingers, and Rafe is going to make sure Greeley’s look at second is the worst twenty minutes of his life. It isn’t for me. Rafe hates being moved off my line because he hates being told what to do, and because Greeley told him to move his feet on Monday in front of Dannebrog, and Rafe doesn’t forget anything. The result is the same either way. Greeley’s line gets hemmed in its own zone three times in a row, and on the third, Greeley yells at Rafe in front of everybody and Rafe laughs at him.

On my line, I make it simple. I call for the puck early and move it on one touch. The juniors don’t know where to go, so I tell them, loud, every time. Near the end, I win a draw clean, get it back, walk around a defenseman, and put it top shelf, and the juniors mob me like it’s a game.

Across the ice, Koda is on Raygoza.

Raygoza is a D who’s always at Greeley’s elbow, and he’s the one who told Greeley’s roommate about Friday, who told Pennock, who told Koda. Koda has been waiting for a battle drill with Raygoza since dinner Monday. When he gets one, he doesn’t even go for the puck. He goes straight through Raygoza shoulder first, puts him into the boards so hard the glass bows, and then leans on him.

Dannebrog’s whistle shrieks. “Barnes!”

Koda coasts backward with both hands up. “Battle drill, Dannebrog.”

“The puck was behind the net.”

“I was battling.”

“You were hunting.” Dannebrog skates in, red all the way down his neck, and shoves Koda once in the chest. “Two lengths. Then sit. You’re done.”

“Done? It’s a captain’s skate.”

“It’s my skate. You’re done. Go.”

Koda goes. On his way to the bench, he skates right past Raygoza, who’s still holding his shoulder, and says something low that I can’t hear. Raygoza goes white.

After the skate, Rafe and Koda don’t go back to Corvin Hall. I know because I’m walking out of the rink with my bag and I see them at the far end of the lot, by a gray Honda Civic with a dent in the back bumper. Koda is leaning against the driver’s door. Rafe is sitting on the hood.

Raygoza is walking toward the car with his bag, and when he sees them, he stops. I change direction.