The rink is dead quiet except for the ring still vibrating off the crossbar. Up in the stands, a set of keys skids across the metal bench and hits the floor with a sharp clatter.

A guy freezes — clipboard in one hand, pen in the other, glasses slightly crooked.

He reaches down slowly to pick up the keys, not breaking eye contact, like moving carefully might somehow undo the last five seconds.

That was, uh. That was a really good shot.