“We’ll see,” Dodge said to Ace. “Had a cave-in today in one of the cabins. Snow load. I need some sheet metal.”

“No problem. We’ll get it ordered.”

“You don’t have any in stock?”

“Used to. Sold out. How much do you need?”

Dodge outlined the project and put in the order. He walked out with a bag of sealant, a thicker tarp, and orders for a couple homes on his route—the Sattlers, west of Spike and Nola’s place, and Erv and Joann Nickle, not far from Remington Mines.

He was loading up his truck when his name in the air caught him.

He turned to see Goodwin Starr walking up to him. Brown hair, blue-eyed like his sisters, and fit, Goodwin wore a vest with DENALI SPORTS on the breast pocket. “I thought that was you I saw the other night at the Midnight Sun. You here for practice?”

Practice. Right.

He noticed that a pair of skates hung over Goodwin’s shoulder.

“These babies are new, just in time for the game. Getting them sharpened.” He gestured to the hardware store. “I still have my old pair, the ones I wore when I beat you in lines.”

Goodwin was a couple years younger than Dodge but had played with a ferocity as forward that had netted him a varsity position.

Dodge couldn’t account for why he said it, but, “I’ll bet I can beat you now.”

“Really,” Goodwin said, grinning. “I’ll take that bet. Get your skates.”

“Sorry. Left them at home.”

“No problem. We have a slew of secondhand skates in the shop. Freshly sharpened. Go pick a pair, on the house, and I’ll meet you on the ice, Forty-Four.”

And that’s how Dodge found himself, thirty minutes later, sitting on a bench next to Mal in the rink’s warming house, lacing up a pair of broken-in size elevens.

“I have extra gear in my locker,” Mal said. He had given Dodge a fist bump when he’d walked in, saying, “I have a good feeling about this year.”

Okay, that felt good.

The sun hung high, the day bright, a hint of anticipation in the air, and everything inside Dodge buzzed as he stepped out of the warming house onto the ice. He took a swing around the ring, stretching, listening to the scrape of his blades carving out his line.

He turned around, skated backward, an eye over his shoulder, then flipped back around, glided close to the boards, and grabbed a stick. Mal, Hudson, Goodwin, and even Jude Remington, Nash’s kid brother, had joined them, along with a few younger players that Dodge didn’t know.

They slapped pucks around, and for a second, Dodge missed Ranger’s voice, calling to him to pass it out to him. And Colt, swinging around to grab the puck. Colt always had amazing stickhandling.