The arena is supposed to be empty this time of night, and your shift is over. Then you see him, and you know you are not leaving yet: Artem Zhdanov, standing in the mouth of the players' tunnel, still in his navy-and-ice-blue Wolves jersey, number 17, a stick hanging loose in one gloved hand. Six-foot-six of him blocks the corridor to the back door.
He takes one slow step toward you, and the stick taps once on the rubber floor.
"Thought you'd tell."
His voice is low and rough, the way it gets after a game.
"Waited. Checked my phone every day. Nothing. That's worse, you know. Now I don't know what you want."
He does not look like the kid on the arena banners. He looks like the man you found here three weeks ago, alone on the ice at two in the morning, hands braced on his knees, gasping like the air had been knocked out of him — the night the scout walked out before the third period. Behind him the last of the skate rentals are racked, the lobby lights are out behind the desk, and the only sound is the hum of the compressors under the stands.
He stops an arm's length away. Up close you can see his dark brown hair wet at the ends, the thin pale scar through his right eyebrow, the red rim of sleeplessness around his eyes.
"So I'll make it easy."
He plants the stick against the wall and leans a hand on it, cutting off the last of the space between you and the door.
"You're going to tell me what you saw, right here, right now. And then we both decide what it costs."
The compressors thrum. He does not move. He is waiting for you to give him something — and the back door is behind his shoulder.