Page 108

“She labels everything. Apparently dates matter.”

“They do.”

“That sounded personal.”

“It was.”

He closes the refrigerator and sits down across from me. His eyes go once to my bag on the floor and come back to my face.

No folder.

“You’ve got something to tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

He waits. There is a television behind him paused on game film, and I take the coward’s route through the first minute of this.

“You were watching yourself.”

“Defensive-zone starts.”

“Finish the sequence.”

His eyebrows go up. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

He rewinds it. On screen he loses the draw cleanly, and instead of chasing the loss he cuts underneath the winger, closes the lane, and makes the defenseman move the puck a second before he wants to. Mack steps into the pass. Roman gets it out.

Colt freezes the frame. “That’s the part my agent hates.”

“Why?”

“Draw goes in the loss column.”

“The shift does not.”

“Tell that to Silas.”

I watch his feet rather than his shoulder. He loses the puck and wins the next three seconds.

“Your first step is earlier.”

“Because I know where he wants it.”

There is pleasure in his face while he explains it.

Hockey.

Then he says, “My minutes dropped again Saturday.”

“How much?”

“Two shifts. One offensive-zone start in the third went to Brick’s line.”

A notebook is open on the table beside the remote. Opponent. Zone. Result. Next action.