We got lost for a few minutes, sitting there in the dressing room and gazing into each other’s eyes. Color was coming back to Shea’s cheeks, and he was flushed in all the right ways, pink down to his collarbones, hair mussed and drying in sweaty dishevelment. He looked like a hockey warrior, valiant after a game-winning goal, not battered into the boards by his chickenshit captain. I could see the future in the sprawl of his muscular thighs, the coiled readiness to his slouch against the back wall, the fire igniting in his blues. Shea was going to go places in this league.
