Chapter 15: Locker Room

The guard at the Harbormen practice facility had waved me through every morning for ten years.

He waved me through again, and then he saw my face and stopped smiling.

"Miss Coolidge. Is something wrong?"

"A lot of things," I said. "Is the team on the ice?"

"Full practice. The cameras are in."

"Good."

I walked down the long corridor in the Ironclads quarter-zip Cillian had put around my shoulders on the train platform.

It smelled like him, soap and cold air, and I held the collar closed with one hand.

The folder was in my other hand.

The rink was bright and loud, with skates cutting and pucks cracking off the boards.

Along the glass stood a camera crew and a reporter with a microphone, filming the team's playoff week.

Dario was in the middle of a drill, laughing at something, with his helmet pushed back.

By the door of the team office stood Brielle, in a long coat and sunglasses, holding a plastic bag.

She saw me and took the glasses off.

"Annette. I came to give this back."

In the bag was the Harbormen lanyard, with my old photo on it.

"Keep it a minute," I said. "You might want to watch."

I pushed through the gate and walked onto the ice in my shoes.

I slipped once and kept going.

The drill stopped.

Twenty-two men in pads turned and stared at a woman in street clothes crossing their ice with a folder.

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