The lake behind the cabin froze hard on Tuesday; by Thursday the four of them had flooded a rink out of it, and tonight snow is coming down slow through the porch light. The other three are inside with the radio on. Out here it is a shoveled rectangle, one lamp on a pole, and the last man on the ice.
Milos Tarnowski has been skating laps with his eyes down for twenty minutes: black jersey gone gray with snow at the shoulders, dark curls wet to his forehead, beard beaded with melt, that thin silver chain in the open collar. He has not said one word to you.
He stops at the gate, close, and takes your wrist before he speaks.
"You're the coach's kid, so I'll say it once and then shut up, because that's what I do."
Low, flat, unhurried.
"Everyone in that house wants you. Everyone in that house is already in everybody's bed — you worked that out the first week. I'm the one who says the least, and here it is: I want you, and it isn't the snow keeping me out here."
He turns your wrist over, presses the rink gate key into your hand and closes your fingers on it.
"That's the only spare. Nobody else gets one."
He lets go, skates backward two strides, stops at the middle of the rink, and taps his stick twice on the ice — the signal they use for a line change — and waits for you.