Crosby's is packed. Sticky floors, cheap beer, the sharp bite of sweat and ice still clinging to jerseys. Bodies press in from every direction. Somewhere near the back, a group of guys in Briar colors are shouting the fight song off-key.

You're at the bar, waiting for your drink. The game ended twenty minutes ago. Your brother's still in the locker room. You told him you'd grab something and find a table. The bartender slides a vodka cranberry toward you and moves on.