"When else?"
"Volkov, normal humans don't train at five-thirty in the morning."
"Then I will have the ice to myself until you arrive at a normal human hour."
I grabbed my towel and headed for the door. "Goodnight, Volkov."
"It is two in the afternoon."
"Exactly. For you, this is basically nighttime."
I heard it as I was walking out. A small sound, barely there. It could have been anything. A cough. A clearing of the throat. The weight room settling.
But I'm pretty sure Mikhail Volkov laughed.
I thought about that sound for the rest of the day. On the drive home, making dinner, watching film on my laptop in bed. That tiny, almost invisible crack in the glacier.
I did not think about his eyes. I did not think about how standing next to him on the ice felt like plugging into an electrical current.
I drove home and made dinner and watched film and went to bed, and if my brain replayed the weight room conversation before I fell asleep, that was involuntary and did not count.
I definitely did not think about any of that.
I was thinking about hockey. Breakout patterns. Neutral zone transitions. Very professional, very focused hockey thoughts.
My phone buzzed. A text from Jonah.
How was couples therapy with Volkov?
I typed back: He made a joke.
Three dots. Then: Evacuate the building. The apocalypse has begun.
I laughed and put my phone on the charger and turned off the lights.
In the dark, alone, with no one to perform for, I let myself think one honest thought.
His almost-smile was the best thing I'd seen all week.
Then I rolled over and went to sleep, because some thoughts are better left in the dark where they can't follow you into the morning.
MIK
The film room was my cathedral.
This is not an exaggeration. I found the same peace in a dark room full of hockey footage that other men found in churches. The geometry of the game laid bare. Patterns emerging from chaos. Every goal, every turnover, every missed assignment visible in hindsight, predictable in theory, preventable in practice. Film was truth. Film did not lie or perform or pretend. It simply showed you what happened and let you decide what to do about it.
I arrived early, as always. Took my seat in the back corner, also as always. I had my notebook open, pen ready, the projector warming up. Coach Callahan's film sessions were mandatory for the full team, but I did my own breakdowns before and after. Most players found this excessive. I found it necessary. The difference between a good defenseman and a great one was not talent. It was preparation. Talent got you to the NHL. Preparation kept you there.
The room filled slowly. Players drifting in with their coffee and their protein shakes, finding their usual seats. There was an unspoken geography to these sessions. Forwards sat together. Defensemen sat together. Goalies sat in the back and pretendedto pay attention while actually sleeping with their eyes open, which was a skill I respected.
I was reviewing my notes on Colorado's breakout when someone sat down next to me.
Not next to me in the general sense. Next to me in the specific, deliberate sense of choosing the empty chair to my immediate right when there were fifteen other empty chairs in the room. I did not need to look up to know who it was. The cologne arrived before the man did. Something with cedar and citrus that I had started to recognize at a distance, which was a problem I was choosing to ignore.
"Morning, Volkov."
"Briggs."