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“Thought you were expensive.”

“You can’t afford the good seats.”

Puck drops.

He drives through my right shoulder exactly the way Sully said he would.

I let him.

My left skate opens. His weight follows me half a step too far. I pull the puck behind his heel to Mack and spin out before he can turn the draw into a wrestling match.

Mack sends it back.

I already know where Roman is.

One touch through the middle. Roman catches it in stride, cuts inside the defenseman, and snaps high glove.

Post.

The crowd makes the sound anyway.

Roman circles behind the net. “Bad pass.”

“Hit the net.”

“Bad angle.”

“You created that yourself.”

Their defenseman shoves me toward the boards.

I grin at him. “He’s sensitive.”

“Fuck off.”

“See?”

Next shift, Mack gets us through neutral ice with speed. Their weak-side defenseman cheats toward him, which is generous.

I cut under the coverage.

Puck arrives flat.

I hold it one extra beat until their center commits, then slide it across the slot.

Roman buries this one.

Red light.

The noise climbs straight through my chest and keeps going, and I’m twenty-four years old and nothing in my body has ever hurt.

Roman hits the glass, turns, and points at himself with both gloves.

“I did all of that.”

I get an arm around his neck before Mack crashes into us. “You were present for the ending.”

“History remembers scorers.”