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don’t know is that the first thing he did was make a call on his cell phone.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean anything,” I said.
    â€œMaybe not. But when he came back out, I told him that two bikers had dragged you away from your car.”
    â€œWhat?” Nate had known but hadn’t stepped in to help?
    â€œHe told me not to worry,” she said. “He told me that whatever happened was going to help you and not hurt you.” She paused. “That’s when I knew he’d been the one to tell those bikers where you were.”

chapter nineteen
    I stood along the boards in my skates and full equipment and practice jersey. I leaned on my knees, panting. Sweat poured down my face and neck.
    Coach Jon had worked us hard in the first hour of practice, mainly with skating drills.
    Now it was time for scrimmage.
    Coach Jon skated toward me. He carried a yellow practice jersey.
    He stopped in front of me. He spoke slowly so that I could read his lips. In practice hewasn’t so worried that I would misunderstand him. He saved the whiteboard for games.
    â€œTime to switch teams,” I saw him say.
    â€œSwitch teams?” I repeated. Maybe I had read his lips wrong. “Am I being traded from the Hitmen?”
    â€œNot yet,” he said. “Switch scrimmage teams.”
    I wore black in practice. We always played against the yellow.
    I looked over to see if Nate was wearing a yellow jersey.
    Coach Jon caught me looking. He knew why.
    â€œRadar,” he said, “you’re not on Nate’s line anymore.”
    â€œSir?” I said.
    â€œI want to keep you both on the Hitmen. Since it’s not working for you on the same line, I want to see how you play with others.”
    I nodded. I felt sick about this. But what could I do?
    â€œAnd Radar,” Coach Jon said, “you’re playing center in this scrimmage.”
    â€œCenter?” Had he just said center? Why was I suddenly playing center? It had been years since I’d played anything but left wing.
    â€œCenter.” He smiled a tight smile. “Against Nate.”
    I lined up at center ice in my yellow jersey. Except for a few games when the Hitmen had faced the Warriors the previous season, Nate and I had never played against each other. Even during those Hitmen-Warriors games last season, our lines had not been on the ice at the same time.
    Strange as it felt to be playing center, it felt even stranger to look up from where I was digging in to take the face-off and see my own face on the player opposite me.
    Nate’s eyes were intense. Angry.
    I’m sure mine were the same.
    Coach Jon dropped the puck to start the scrimmage. Nate lunged forward and slammed his shoulder into mine, knocking me off the puck. He kicked it forward with the tip of his skate blade, and his left winger—his new left winger—swooped in and raced toward the yellow jerseys’ blue line.
    I spun and followed, with Nate on my heels.
    At our blue line, his winger dumped the puck into the boards and chased. After years as a winger, I nearly made the mistake of drifting to the top of the face-off circle on the left side to guard the point. I reminded myself that I was a center.
    I headed toward our net.
    So did Nate.
    In the corner, his new winger fought a yellow-jerseyed defenseman for the puck. I stayed close to Nate, about half a stride back.
    I’ve noticed some centers like tangling with the player they cover in the defensive end. Others pick their times, going in to bodycheck as a pass arrives.
    That’s what I decided to do. I was angry enough with Nate that if I covered him too closely, we might end up in a fight.
    Sure enough, seconds later the puck squirted to Nate. He thought he was clear,and he began to stickhandle before shooting. He should have fired it right away.
    His head was down, and I crashed into him hard, knocking him on his butt. I stood over him, glaring.
    He slowly got to his feet.