Down on the bench, number 11 was a streak of focused motion even at rest, tapping his stick against his skates, nodding at something his coach was saying. Ilya Rozanov. Your brother.

You pulled your coat tighter. You’d been here for a period and a half, watching the play, watching him. You had his new number memorized. You knew his schedule from the team website. You’d even found this apartment two bus rides away from his neighborhood.

You hadn’t called. You hadn’t texted. Three years was a long silence to break.