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“Better disguise.”

The puck comes around again before he can answer, and whatever conversation he wanted is over for now.

Late in the third, he gives himself away twice more.

His eyes go to the defenseman before a reverse. A shift later, his hands climb higher on the stick before he tries to finish a hit.

The last time, I move first.

He catches glass instead of me and gets enough of my jersey to complain about it.

Mack is laughing when we reach the bench.

“You pissing him off on purpose?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“You’ve been talking to him for two periods. Now he’s trying to put you through the glass.”

“He seems lonely.”

“He looks homicidal.”

“That’s not mutually exclusive.”

Mack drinks and hands me the bottle. Across the ice, the winger is talking to his defenseman and points toward me once before his eyes move to the scoreboard.

One goal down. Two minutes left.

Eleven games left in the year and we’re two points out of the last spot.

I’ve been in this league eighteen seasons and past the first round twice. Everybody on this bench wants April. I’m the only one on it who might not get another one.

Mack follows my attention.

“They’re coming down our side,” I tell him.

“How do you know?”

“Center’s already cheating his feet, and your friend over there keeps checking the wall.”

Mack looks once.

“Fine. Your side.”

“That sounded almost respectful.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Sully doesn’t say anything when he taps my shoulder. Nobody on a bench explains a shift in March.

They come over the boards.

The center sets his feet.

Same tell.

Same side.