Chapter 4: Not a Fall

Luca waited until the house was empty before he told me to put my skates on.

Paolo was in the emergency room with my father, getting a scan on his ribs.

The doctor had said bruised, not broken, and Paolo had said he'd play Saturday anyway.

At nine that night Luca was standing at the top of the basement stairs on his crutches, with a stick hooked over one of them.

"Down," he said. "Now."

The basement had a rink.

My father had bought a sheet of synthetic ice for the boys when they were kids.

It was a slick white pad the size of a garage, with a net at one end and scuffs all over the boards.

I came down in my socks and stood on the edge.

"You tripped him on purpose," Luca said.

"I slipped."

"The Kings' enforcer weighs two thirty. You don't slip that guy into a bench."

"It was an accident."

"You read his hips before he moved. I watched your head turn."

He lowered himself onto a stool by the net, propped his cast on the boards, and laid his stick across his lap.

"I'm not going to tell Dad," he said. "I'm not going to tell Paolo. I just need to know what I saw."

I looked at him.

He was the funny one, the one who told jokes at the family table when my father went silent.

He had also been the first to hand me his sweatshirt the day I came home.

The house was cold, and I had not said a word about it.

"Skate for me," he said. "Not the wobble. The real one. Five minutes."

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