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the puck at mid ice. Dewey started at defense, next to Dellenbaugh, who was passed the puck by the center. Dellenbaugh flipped it to Dewey, who skated up the right side of the rink, then passed it back to Dellenbaugh, who proceeded to weave in and out of three players on his way to the opposing net, where he deposited the puck between Edwards’s pads— five hole— for the first goal of the game. Technically, Dewey got an assist on it. Dellenbaugh skated back to defense as Pitchess retrieved the puck from the net. The other team booed rather loudly as Dellenbaugh skated by their bench.
    “Puck hog!” hooted one player on the opposing team.
    “Republicans never pass the puck!” barked another, to the howls of his teammates.
    Dellenbaugh took his place on the blue line, next to Dewey.
    “Nice shot,” said Dewey.
    “Thanks, kid. Good assist.”
    “Yeah, right,” said Dewey.
    The next face-off was won by the other team. DiNovi, who was playing center, took the puck and dumped it into the zone behind Dewey and Dellenbaugh. Dellenbaugh gave chase as the other team’s right wing came after him. In the corner, Dellenbaugh grabbed the puck and banged it along the back boards to Dewey. Just as Dewey was about to get the puck, he felt a sharp pain at his ankles—a stick from behind, slashing at his skate. He went flying over and tumbled to the ice, sticking his left arm out as he collided with the boards so that his head wouldn’t hit. Turning and looking up, he saw the back of a red helmet, the only red helmet on the ice: DeGray, the player Dellenbaugh had warned him about. He took the puck and centered it to DiNovi, who stuck it past Hastings to even the score.
    Dellenbaugh skated over and helped Dewey up.
    “You okay, kid?”
    “Fine,” said Dewey.
    The teams changed lines, tied at one apiece. On the bench, Dewey glanced over to the other bench, catching the eye of DeGray, who was smiling and talking with someone.
    “You want me to clean his clock for you?” asked Dellenbaugh, smiling.
    Dewey laughed.
    “No, not a big deal.”
    Dewey had liked Rob Allaire, Dellenbaugh’s predecessor, a lot. Initially, Dewey wasn’t sure how he felt about Dellenbaugh. Now, as he saw the president in his element, as a human being, as a teammate, even as a friend, Dewey was starting to like him. Dewey wasn’t very good at relating to people or forming friendships. Dellenbaugh was a genius at it. He made him forget the fact that he was president; if anything, he made Dewey feel like they were two kids playing pond hockey back in Castine; Dellenbaugh had a big shit-eating grin on his face as he not-so-subtly encouraged Dewey to take revenge on DeGray.
    It was different from how he’d felt about Allaire. With Allaire, Dewey felt nothing but respect and admiration, even awe. When Allaire had awarded Dewey the Presidential Medal of Freedom, it was one of the proudest moments of his life. But with Dellenbaugh, it was something different that made Dewey like him. He was closer in age to Dewey, and his working-class roots were ones they had in common.
    The ref blew the whistle, and Dewey climbed over the boards for another shift, this time starting in the opposing team’s zone. Dewey was on the blue line, at the point, and the center won the face-off and shoveled it back to him. Dewey stepped forward with the puck, went left, then took a slap shot—which sailed with decent speed into the jumble of players in front of the net. Despite the no-checking rule, as he fired the shot, Dewey got leveled from behind. From the ground, he watched as his shot somehow found its way into the back of the net, the goalie having been screened. Looking up, he saw Dellenbaugh pushing DeGray back against the boards and saying something to him. Dewey hadn’t seen who’d hit him, but obviously Dellenbaugh had.
    As he skated back to mid ice, the red-helmeted DeGray skated up to Dewey.
    “Hey, sorry about that.”
    Dewey ignored him.
    The game went back and