Chapter 33. Ridgeway

Wyatt’s POV

The last time I played at Ridgeway, I left in the back of a security van.

That was three years ago. Freshman year. I don’t remember the hit. I remember the silence after it, and the blood on the boards, and the silver baton across my collarbone. I remember the investigation afterward: six weeks, three hearings, a committee of strangers asking me over and over what the defenseman said to me, and me saying over and over, I don’t remember.

I remember. I’ve just never said it out loud.

Tonight, we’re back. Tuesday, October thirteenth. Away game. Ridgeway Arena, two hours north, with its low ceiling and its loud crowd and its long memory.

Knox’s still suspended. He’s in the bus, two rows behind me, with his hood up, ready to watch from the press box. Before we pulled out of the Cadston lot, he leaned over the seat and said, “You good?”

“I’m good.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I’m a good liar.”

He didn’t laugh.