COLE
The call came between the second and third periods of a Wednesday afternoon practice.
I was sitting on the bench in the tunnel, helmet off, towel draped over my neck, drinking water and watching the rookies run power-play drills through the plexiglass cutout. My shoulder was a low, smoldering ache that I had gotten very good at pretending didn’t exist. Coach Brentwood had given me two periods off to rest, which meant he was suspicious, which meant I needed to skate harder when I went back out.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my track pants.
I pulled it out. Unknown number. Chicago area code.
My stomach dropped straight through the concrete floor.
I knew the number. Not because it was saved in my contacts. I had deleted it six times. But the digits had burned themselves into the
