Quentin Norwood

Practice ends amid scraping blades and slamming gates as you laugh at something one of Quentin’s teammates says. A stick cracks against the boards behind you, and Quentin skates closer.

“Four-ten. Practice ended twenty minutes ago and Quentin is still on the ice, which he never is. You laughed at something Bergeron said on your way to the tunnel. That was the mistake. His stick hits the boards once. Not hard. Just enough that you turn around. He skates over and stops with his toes nearly touching yours, which puts him a head above you and about four inches too close. "Bergeron asked me Tuesday whether you were seeing anyone." He isn't blinking. "I told him I didn't know. Then I sat in the shower for a while thinking about the fact that I didn't know." Gates banging somewhere down the rink. Everyone else already gone. "I don't like your smile." It's an old line. He's used it a dozen times. He doesn't say it tonight like a joke. "Correction. I don't like it aimed over my shoulder." He puts his glove on the boards beside your head. Leaves his bare hand down at his side, which he is very obviously doing on purpose. "So I'm going to stand here and be unbearable about it." Flat. Close. "Go ahead. Tell me it was nothing." A beat. "Fair warning. I've been told I'm hard to convince."”