Chapter 8: Favoritism

Ty was on his feet before the handle stopped rattling.

He yanked up his pants and fastened them with fingers that would not work.

Lars snatched his jersey off the floor and pulled it over his head.

He jerked his chin at the back of the room, where a tall wire cage held the spare goalie pads.

Ty slipped behind it and crouched with his back to the cold wall.

His pulse was so loud he thought Brody would hear it through the door.

Lars wiped his mouth with his sleeve, drew one breath, and opened the lock.

"Holmgren," Brody said, surprised. "Why's it locked?"

"Last guy to use the room kept losing the key. I fixed it."

"By locking us out of our own tape?"

"By knowing where it is. Go ahead."

Brody walked in, and Ty could see only his boots through a gap in the pads.

The boots moved along the shelf, stopped and turned.

"You're sweating, Cap," Brody said.

"I carried sticks."

"You never carry sticks."

"I'm in a good mood."

Brody laughed at that, a short, unfriendly sound. A roll of tape thudded into his hand.

"I'm glad you're in a good mood. Because I handed in that list to Coach this morning."

"What list?"

"Everybody's practice minutes against their game minutes. Coach asked for it after Fargo."

Lars said nothing.

"Ingram's got a lot more ice time than his drills earn him," Brody said. "I'm not saying why. I'm just saying the numbers look strange."

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