Oof! I slam right into someone. I bounce back, and hands clamp down on my shoulders to steady me before I stumble over my own feet. There’s a thump of a phone hitting the ground, and as I blink the pain in my forehead away, one of Foster’s old teammates comes into vision. Rossi? Martin? No, it starts with a C. “Graceful, Cohen,” another of the hockey guys calls out from inside while giving us a thumbs up. Ah, Cohen, then.
