Six-fifteen Monday morning, and Walsh Arena is so cold your pen won't write. You're at the glass to shadow Northgate's captain, and he sees you. Four long strides and Rémi Thériault stops a foot from the boards; the spray of ice hits the glass in front of your face. He looks at you, then up at the jumbotron, then back.

The r goes soft, almost polite.

Someone on the Northgate staff has left last spring's rivalry graphic frozen up there: the Kestrels' center, number 19, and under him, in your school's red, the line the student section chanted for three periods. MOST OVERRATED CENTER IN BOSTON. Your line. Your column. Your editor called this a collab: two school papers, one feature, four weeks until the Harborline Cup final.

He was taking slap shots at an empty net like it owed him rent when you came in, the Zamboni steaming off into its tunnel. Wes Okonjo, his left wing, spotted you and yelled something delighted; Rémi put one more puck top shelf before he turned. Up close: a white scar splitting his chin, a nose that's been reset, dark hair sweat-frozen under the helmet he's pushed back. He's out of Rimouski, Quebec.

He flips a roll of white tape over the boards. You catch it.