prologue
FEB 28, 2003, 8:47 PM San Francisco, California
A goalie’s crease is not supposed to be painted red. It’s supposed to be blue, of course. The Blades goalie seems perplexed at the recent development.
“Fuck!” A voice shouts, panicked. A defenseman. Blueliners are always shouting so much. He throws off his gloves, presses his hands over the goalie’s, firm. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
The Blades are wearing their alternate jerseys tonight. Black with red, reminiscent of the Golden Gate in the evening, the dark stains like clouds ripping the sky apart.
“Just—just hang on, okay? Skate with me. We need you off the ice.” He’s panicking, his hands covered in blood, voice hoarse from screaming for medics. “Stay with me. Hang on. Please.”
He leaves behind a long red cut in the ice as he skates towards the exit. Steel is unforgiving.
“Please don’t…” He begs, his hands shaking. Blood is still pouring through between his fingers.
“I’ll be okay.” The goalie reassures him quietly, before collapsing in his arms.