Page 40

Still pisses me off.

Back on the bench, heat sits under the front of my shoulder. I press my thumb into it through the jersey.

Then somebody else’s hand is there instead.

Flat palm on my back, below the shoulder blade. Her other hand under my forearm, guiding it out, not rushing it. The half inch her thumb moved across the front of the joint, and the way she didn’t take it back, and the way she said nothing afterward because saying something would have made it a thing that happened.

I turned my head.

Nothing happened.

That has become irritating in several brand-new ways.

“Riley.”

Mack is staring at me.

“What?”

“You planning to play this shift?”

“Was considering a career change.”

“Do it tomorrow.”

I hop the boards.

Late in the second, Mack fires a cross-body pass that should meet my blade on the right.

The arm doesn’t get there.

The puck skips past me toward the line.

I catch the defenseman before he can turn it into a rush, pin him outside with my hips, and kick the puck back to the point.

Whistle at the next stoppage.

Mack comes beside me.

“Right?”

“Pass was behind me.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Then congratulations on your growth.”

His eyes narrow.

Astrid would have called that before I finished the sentence. She wouldn’t even have looked up.

I don’t love that a woman I’ve met three times is now the standard I grade my own lying by.

Third period, I stop asking the right arm to do the same job.

I open earlier on entries. Take passes on the left and move them before contact arrives. On draws I turn my hips instead of fighting through the right shoulder.

Their center keeps leaning where I used to be.