“I didn’t mean to trip you,” I said. “Just calm down.”

“Fucking Indians,” he said.

“I’m not an Indian,” I said.

“Yeah, fuck that,” he said. “I know, you’re a Native fucking American.”

I started laughing. I couldn’t help it.

“What’s so funny?” he said. “Did I say something funny?”

“You always get high when you play hockey?” I said.

“The fuck you talking about?”

“You’re higher than the space shuttle,” I said. “If I were still a cop I’d have to arrest you. Skating while impaired.”

He gave me a good push and skated away. The dance was over. “Fucking Indians,” he said.

We finished the game. Vinnie scored once in that period. Another of his teammates scored in the third period to tie the game at 2-2. I made a couple nice saves to keep us tied.

In the last minute of the game, my new friend the blue center had an open shot at me. He wound up and launched a rocket. No slapshots, my ass. I got a glove on it, knocked it just high enough to hit the crossbar with a loud ringing sound that reverberated through the entire arena.

The game ended. There would be no overtime. The next game was ready to start, as soon as they got us out of there and gave the Zamboni a chance to take a quick run over the ice.

He glared at me, breathing hard.

I look back on that moment now, the two of us facing each other on the ice. I wonder what I would have done if I had known what would happen in the next few days. I probably would have hit him in the face with my hockey stick. Or broken off the end and jabbed him in the neck. But of course, I had no way of knowing. At that moment, he was just another hotshot asshole hockey player, and I was the old man who just took away his third goal.

“No hat trick today,” I said to him. “Looks like the Cowboys and Indians have to settle for a tie.”