COLE
The night after the anniversary, I played the worst game of my season.
Home against Detroit. I was slow off the draw, late on my reads, missed two passes I should have made in my sleep. Brentwood pulled me for the last four minutes of the third period and put Jake’s line out to protect the lead. We won 3-2. I contributed nothing to the final score.
In the locker room afterward, nobody said anything. That was worse than if they had. The team gave me the specific, careful silence they reserved for days when the captain was carrying something they couldn’t help with. Dmitri sat beside me and unlaced his skates and didn’t speak. Henderson offered me a water bottle without making eye contact. Jake, to his credit, said nothing at all, which was the closest thing to decency I’d ever seen
