“We’ve met up with the councilors, some of us sponsors and board members . . . all off the record, of course.”

Peter is looking for cream, and is trying to make it clear that he doesn’t want to hear this. Tails takes no notice.

“When the juniors win the final, they’re going to pick Beartown as the site of the hockey academy. It would look terrible if they didn’t, in PR terms, of course. And we’ve had a bit of a discussion about renovating the rink . . .”

“Also off the record, I assume,” Peter grunts, seeing as he knows that “off the record” in the political language of the local council means backs being scratched with one hand while the other stuffs money into a pocket.

Tails slaps him on the back and nods toward his office.

“Who knows, Peter, maybe we’ll even be able to afford to get you an espresso machine!”

“Great,” Peter mutters.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything stronger in there?” Tails says loudly, looking toward Peter’s office.

“Nervous about the game, then?” Peter smiles.

“Did da Vinci get a discount on brown when he painted the Mona Lisa?”

Peter laughs and nods toward the office next to his.

“The president’s bound to have a bottle or two.”

Tails brightens up. Peter calls after him:

“You are going to keep your shirt on today, aren’t you, Tails? Not like the quarterfinal? The parents weren’t happy!”

“Promise!” Tails lies, then adds quickly without turning around, as if it hadn’t been his intention all along:

“Let’s have a little glass together before the game, eh? I mean, I guess you could have water. Or soda if that’s what you drink. I’ve invited a few of the other sponsors along as well; I thought we could have a little chat. You know . . . off the record.”

He returns with both a bottle and the president, whose forehead is already as shiny as freshly polished ice, with dark patches under his armpits. Only then does Peter realize that he’s walked into an ambush.

*

Fatima has never been in the rink when there are so many people in it. She usually sees Amat’s games with the boys’ team, but those are only watched by the parents of the players and whatever younger siblings have been dragged along. Today grown men are standing in the parking lot begging to buy tickets at four times their face value. Amat bought two well in advance. She had wondered why he didn’t want to go with Zacharias like he usually does, but Amat had said he wanted to show her the boys he would one day be playing with. That was only a week or so ago, and back then it would have seemed utterly fantastical that such a day would come so soon. She clutches the tickets tightly in her hand and tries not to get in anyone’s way in the throng, but evidently fails to be invisible because someone suddenly grabs her and says:

“You! Are you going to help with this, or what?”

Fatima turns around. Maggan Lyt is waving her arms at her, then points to a glass bottle that someone’s dropped on the floor and has broken.

“Can you get a dustpan and brush? Surely you can see that someone might step on it here! A child!”

The woman who dropped the bottle—Fatima recognizes her as the mother of another player on the team—is showing no sign of picking the glass up herself. She’s already started to walk off to her place in the stands.

“Are you listening, or what?” Maggan Lyt exclaims, taking hold of Fatima’s arm.

Fatima nods and puts the tickets in her pocket. She goes to bend down by the glass.

She is stopped by another hand on her shoulder.

“Fatima?” Kira says warmly, before turning to Maggan Lyt with noticeably less warmth:

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t have a problem. She works here, doesn’t she?” Maggan snarls.

“Not today,” Kira says.

“What do you mean, not today? So what’s she doing here, then?”

Fatima straightens her back and takes such a tiny step forward that it’s unnoticed by everyone but her. Then she looks Maggan in the eye and replies:

“I’m not ‘she.’ I am actually standing here. I’m here for the same reason as you. To watch my son play.”

Kira has never seen anyone more proud. And has never seen Maggan so speechless. When the crowd has carried mother Lyt away, Kira picks the glass up from the floor. Fatima asks quietly:

“Sorry, Kira, but . . . I’m not used to . . . I wonder . . . would you mind if I sat next to you today?”

Kira bites her lip. Takes a firm grasp of Fatima’s hand.

“Oh, Fatima, I should be asking if I can sit next to you.”

*

Sune is sitting at the top of the stands. The sponsors who’ve passed him on the stairs have pretended they haven’t seen him, so he knows precisely what they’re on their way to talk about in the office. Oddly enough, he no longer feels angry. Or sad. He just feels tired. Of the politics and money and everything about the club that no longer has anything to do with hockey. He’s just tired. So maybe they’re right after all. He doesn’t fit in anymore.

He looks out across the ice and takes several deep breaths through his nose. A few of the players on the opposing team—ready early the way you are when you’re terrified—set out to warm up. No matter how times change, nerves remain the same. Sune finds that comforting, that this is still only a sport, regardless of what the men in the offices are trying to turn it into. A puck, two goals, hearts full of passion. Some people say hockey is like religion, but that’s wrong. Hockey is like faith. Religion is something between you and other people; it’s full of interpretations and theories and opinions. But faith . . . that’s just between you and God. It’s what you feel in your chest when the referee glides out to the center circle between two players, when you hear the sticks strike each other and see the black disk fall between them. Then it’s just between you and hockey. Because cherry trees always smell of cherry trees, whereas money smells of nothing.

*