The Goalie Bet novel · Chapter 5 of 32

Chapter 5: The Rink

I couldn't sleep, so I went in early.

Not for him. For the paperwork.

The coordinator wanted logs, and logs meant an hour at the desk.

I parked at 5:05 and walked in through the loading door by the Zamboni bay.

The rink was lit. Not the whole building. Just the ice.

Somebody was on it.

I stood at the glass and watched him skate.

He wasn't doing anything fancy. He went down the far boards and turned and came back.

Every third stride his right leg dragged.

He'd push off and it would quit and he'd cover it with the left.

He had his pads off, just skates and a hoodie and gloves.

He was smiling. That was the thing.

He looked like a man who hadn't been happy in a month.

I walked around the boards and stood at the bench with my arms crossed.

He saw me on his second lap and stopped.

The skates scraped. The building hummed.

"Morning," he said.

"Get off the ice."

"I'm just skating."

"Get off the ice."

He came over to the bench and leaned on the boards.

He was breathing hard and his face was red and he looked so goddamn pleased with himself.

"Two weeks," he said. "I'm ahead of schedule."

"You're not on a schedule. You're on a plan, and the plan doesn't have skating in week one."

"I feel fine."

"Your right leg quits on every third stride."

"You were watching?"

"Get off the ice."

He stepped off. I handed him his skate guards and he took them and didn't put them on.

"I want to know what you felt," I said.

"What?"

"Out there. What did it feel like."

He looked at the ice.

"Like it would hold," he said. "Like if I pushed it would hold."

"But it didn't."

"Not every time."

"How many times."

"Twice."

"Out of how many strides."

He didn't answer.

"Out of how many, Logan."

"Twelve."

"Twelve what."

"Twelve times it didn't fire."

I stood there with my hands at my sides.

"You've been doing this all week," I said.

"I've been doing it since Sunday."

"Sunday."

"Sunday, Monday, Wednesday. Not Tuesday, I had a lab."

"You've been skating on a strain for four days while I've been doing isometrics with you in a room."

"I know."

"And you didn't tell me."

"I knew what you'd say."

"You knew what I'd say."

"I'm not going to miss the playoffs," he said.

His voice cracked on it. Just a little.

The rink was very quiet.

"Say that again," I said.

"I'm not going to miss the playoffs."

"That's not what I heard."

He looked at the far end of the ice.

"I'm not going to be the guy who watched," he said.

"From the bench. In a suit. For the rest of my life."

"I've been the starter for three years. If I sit out this one, I don't get it back. That's how it works."

"You're twenty-two."

"You don't get it."

"No," I said. "I get it. I just think you're wrong."

"I'm not wrong."

"You're wrong and you're scared and you're skating on a leg that doesn't work."

"Don't."

"Don't what."

"Don't do the thing where you tell me how I feel."

I walked past him into the bench area and sat down on the bench.

"Take your skates off," I said.

He didn't.

"Logan."

He sat down and unlaced them.

I watched him do it. His hands were shaking, and not from the cold.

"Give me your foot."

He put his right foot in my lap.

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