Evan holds.
The puck gets through anyway, and the counterattack comes hard enough to pull sound from the crowd before the shot even leaves the stick.
Volkov makes the save with his shoulder. The rebound kicks loose. Finn goes through a winger to clear it, legal by the width of a prayer.
My fingers pause over the keyboard.
Safe has almost cost them.
Beside me, another reporter mutters, “McKinney wanted that.”
I write: Ryan stops Evan. Near goal.
Then I watch Ryan after the whistle.
He does not look at the scoreboard. He looks at Evan.
Evan looks back with a smile that has no humor in it.
The whistle gives the building a breath, and I look up at the owner’s box.
Bob Hartley. Sponsors. Suits. Glasses of something expensive behind the glass.
Then my father.
Two seats from Bob. Laughing. Polished. Perfect.
He does not look for me. He does not have to.
He is not here for me. Men like my father rarely travel without a reason, and the reason is already in print: his money, Hartley’s room, my disclosure filed and sitting in the public record whereneither of them can pretend it is private. The story found me first. I wrote it down.
I look back to the ice.
The next shift gets uglier.
Finn tries to prove something, which usually means the thing should be hidden from him until he matures emotionally or reaches retirement. He chases contact through the corner, misses the clean angle, and leaves a seam behind him. Colt fills it, barely. Zach yells something I cannot hear. Ryan cuts across the slot and takes the shot off his ribs instead of letting Volkov wear it.
The sound is awful even from above.
I feel it in my teeth.
Ryan goes down on one knee. Gets up too fast.
My notes blur for one second. I blink hard and force myself back.
Reporter first.
Wanting him later.
The puck comes to Evan again.
This time Ryan does not raise his glove.
Evan jumps.
It is reckless until it is perfect. He seals the wall with his hip, takes the hit, and somehow slides the puck through a lane that looks theoretical. Colt collects it in stride. Finn drives the net with all his terrible, useful energy. Ryan, still favoring the ribs he will deny until God gets bored and intervenes, arrives at the far post.
Pass.