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He crosses the concourse beneath the neon sign that reads COLD BEER'S. For the thousandth time, he winces at the apostrophe, remembering how Sister Mary Cordelia at St Henry's would make him stand at his desk through an entire class for such a grammatical crime. Though dead for many years, Cordelia remains quite alive in Jimmy's head. Some nights, he still diagrams sentences in his dreams. He knows he annoys friends with his grammatical observations, but he can't help himself, even on the ice. He once was awarded a two-minute misconduct penalty by a referee whose grammar he corrected; the zebra kept saying 'I seen' instead of 'I saw.' Jimmy didn't understand; weren't refs supposed to revere rules?

He secures the wide double doors where Zelda makes her grand entrances to a crowd that will shriek as loudly for her as for the IceKings. The team has a big game tomorrow night against the Bombers of Minot, North Dakota. The IceKings trail the Bombers by a point in the division standings and could leapfrog them with a win. The Dakota squad is sizable and ornery, but the IceKings have a step on them speed-wise. Which means the better that he and Zelda do their jobs, the smoother and quicker the ice, the better chance of a win for the boys. It's not cheating when everyone's skating on the same sheet.

The shed where Zelda lives is tucked beneath the upper-level seats in the south-east corner of the arena, a popular place to sit because it's near restrooms and a beer stand, things that go together like a puck and stick. For years, Zelda and her retired brother, Xavier, hunkered in a butt-cold, corrugated steel garage outside, until Jimmy persuaded the bosses to move the operation inside so the Zam didn't have to navigate snow drifts to get to the job. Now Zelda dwells in a high-ceilinged, rectangular room redolent with motor oil and refrigerant, the concrete floor slick with snowmelt, the gray walls lined with shovels, hoses, squeegees, brushes, pickaxes, and other tools Jimmy uses to manicure the ice. Zelda is still dripping water from the last run of the night. Jimmy claps her softly on her flat metal side, just beneath the painted-on ad for Big Henry's. 'Good job today, sweetheart,' he says. 'Working on that blade, promise.'

Outside, he climbs into his '98 Ram and cranks the heat, wishing yet again he could afford one of those pickups that start remotely so they warm up before you get in. He squints through trapezoids of frozen sleet glazing his windshield, switches the heat to defrost, and hits the windshield wipers for solvent, hoping that doesn't freeze too.

He takes out his cellphone and taps the first name on his speed dial. The call goes straight to voicemail. 'You've almost reached Avery,' the fifteen-year-old voice says. 'Unfortunately, I'm not much of a voicemail person.' He knows the message well, but he listens anyway so he can hear his daughter's sweet voice, five-and-a-half hours' drive from Bitterfrost. The beep comes. 'I love you, Ave,' he says, knowing she probably won't hear it.

He hits speed dial number two. 'Sorry, Jimmy,' his ex-wife tells him. She knows he's calling for Avery, not her. 'You're too late.'

'Come on, Noelle, put her on.'

'You know the rules. No phone after ten on weeknights.'

Noelle's a stickler for rules that suit her schedule, even as her schedule as a real estate agent constantly changes. But she's the rule-maker. Jimmy surrendered that privilege, however unwillingly.

'I got caught up in rink stuff.'

'Uh-huh,' Noelle says. 'Try tomorrow.'

'Listen,' he says, trying not to sound upset. 'I know I'm not on the calendar, but I thought I might come down this weekend, see Ave. The Kings are off Sunday and I—'

'This is not a good weekend, Jimmy. We talked about this.' 

'Not good for who?'

'For Avery. She'll be in Pittsburgh for volleyball. I told you.' 

'No.'

Noelle sighs. 'Yes, the other day. You have her schedule. Did you look at it?'

He strains to conjure an image of a magnet on his fridge next to a photo that shows Avery Baker, number twenty-two for Northville High. No, he didn't memorize her schedule. 'OK, sorry,' he says.

'Maybe next week.'

'I have to work all weekend. Sunday matinee.'

'I don't make your schedule, Jimmy,' Noelle says. 'Is everything OK? Everything under control?'

She's speaking in code they both understand. 'Everything's fine,' he says. 'Why do you have to do this, Noe?'

She doesn't answer right away and he pictures her shaking her head.

'Jimmy,' she says, 'I got two bills today from your lawyers. Your lawyers.'

He has yet to outrun his past. 'Why?' he says.

'Good question. Why do I still keep getting these bills? Addressed to me, as if I owe them all this money?'

'Mail them here. I'll deal with it.'

'Just do it, will you? Jesus. OK, I'm going to go to bed. Got a five thirty wake-up. Take care of yourself, OK?'