Checking wasn’t allowed, though that didn’t stop the game from occasionally getting chippy. Usually, it was Dellenbaugh himself who was the instigator. One thing about hockey players was that once they laced the skates on, each player invariably reverted to his habits and ways of old. The former puck hogs still hogged the puck, the former playmakers still set up plays, and the former fighters, such as Dellenbaugh, well, they caused trouble.

Dewey hadn’t asked to be invited to the game. In fact, as he followed Hastings inside the rink, bag slung over his shoulder, he cursed Jessica under his breath. He hadn’t skated since his senior year at Castine High School. At Boston College, given the choice of football or hockey, he’d decided to play football. Dewey had been captain of his high school team. Back then, more than two decades ago, Dewey could handle himself on the rink pretty well. He played defense, scored the occasional goal, led the team in assists. But what he’d really been known for, the quality that caused his coach, a gruff old Mainer named Mark Blood, to nickname him “Mad Dog,” was his ability to hit.

A slight tinge of adrenaline spiked in his blood as he walked through the door and caught the sight of a rusted blue-and-white Zamboni chugging around the ice.

Dewey followed Hastings into the locker room. Inside, the benches on both sides of the room were filled with men getting dressed. Dewey didn’t recognize many of them; he couldn’t have told most U.S. senators apart from the guy driving the Zamboni. But he did recognize a few. In addition to Hastings, there was Attorney General Rickards, and DiNovi, the senior senator from New Jersey.

Dewey glanced quickly around the room at the senators, congressmen, and other officials in various stages of undress.

“I heard we had a new guy in town,” said a tall, black-haired man, who walked over to Dewey. “I’m Tony DiNovi.” He extended his hand.

“Hi,” said Dewey, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Senator.”

“Call me Tony. So I hear you’re the lucky guy who’s marrying Jessica Tanzer. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“We haven’t set a date yet.”

“I’ve known Jessica since she worked on Capitol Hill,” said DiNovi. “She worked on the Intelligence Committee before she went over to the FBI.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“She has one of the best strategic minds I’ve ever known. Most effective national security advisor we’ve had in a long, long time, certainly since I’ve been around. You’re a very lucky man, Dewey.”

“Thanks, Senator.”

Dewey pulled his shirt over his head, then leaned down and unzipped his hockey bag.

“That’s one hell of a scar,” said DiNovi, looking at Dewey’s left shoulder. The scar had that effect; it was two inches wide and ran from the apex of his shoulder down to the midpoint of his biceps, like an ugly ribbon. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”

Dewey looked at DiNovi without answering.

Just then, the door swung open and the president of the United States, J. P. Dellenbaugh, walked in. His brown hair was slightly messed up, and he had a big grin on his face. His hockey bag was slung over his shoulder. He was wearing red sweatpants and a faded blue-and-yellow University of Michigan sweatshirt. He threw his bag down next to Dewey’s.

“Hi, Dewey,” said the president. Dellenbaugh reached out and shook his hand. Everyone was watching. Dellenbaugh glanced around the room. “Hi, boys. What’s the matter, haven’t any of you ever seen an American hero?”

Dellenbaugh kept his eyes on Dewey as he shook his hand.

“Tony,” continued Dellenbaugh, “he got the scar fighting terrorists. Now let’s stop giving the guy the third degree and play a little hockey. Sorry I’m late, everyone.”

Dellenbaugh took the seat next to Dewey and got undressed. It was refreshing to see the U.S. president in this unrehearsed, raw light; seeing him as just one of the guys.

“You and I are probably the only guys in this room who went to public high school,” whispered Dellenbaugh, smiling at Dewey. The implication was clear: the rest of them, at least for the next hour, were all a bunch of prep-school pussies.

“Where did you go?” asked Dewey.

“You mean you don’t know my life story, up and down, left and right?”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t,” laughed Dellenbaugh. “I live for moments like that, finding someone who doesn’t know every damn thing about me. That’s why this hour is the best hour of the week. People don’t treat me like I’m president. The best is when Desmond over there tries to lay me out with one of his pathetic Dartmouth checks.”

A large brown-haired man, tightening his right skate, looked up at Dellenbaugh from across the locker room.

“You’re goin’ down, Dellenbaugh,” he said, smiling.

Dellenbaugh paused, staring at Desmond with mock fury.

“Bring it, bitch,” said Dellenbaugh, taunting him back.

The room erupted in laughter.

Dellenbaugh turned to Dewey.

“To answer your question, I went to Trenton High School, outside of Detroit. Then Michigan on a scholarship. My dad and mom both worked for General Motors.”

Dewey didn’t say anything as he pulled out a pair of ancient CCM Super Tacks, the blades partially covered in rust.

“My God, those are old,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’m going to buy you a new pair as a wedding present. Speaking of which, congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“I asked Jessica where you popped the question. She wouldn’t tell me.”

Dewey smiled but said nothing. He pulled his laces tight, tied them, then reached into the bag for his helmet.

“So you’re not going to tell me?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“No.”

Dewey pulled out an old, bright yellow Jofa helmet. Before he put it on his head, he looked inside. He reached down and removed a layer of cobwebs.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said Dellenbaugh. “That is one nasty-looking helmet. I’m starting to worry about you, Dewey. When was the last time you played?”

Dewey laughed at Dellenbaugh’s ribbing.

“Twenty years ago,” said Dewey.

“It’s pretty mellow out there,” said Dellenbaugh. “I don’t want you getting hurt. I promised your fiancée I’d return you without any major injuries.”

Dewey stood up and pulled his helmet on.

“I’ll see you out there, Mr. President.”

“I’m right behind you,” said Dellenbaugh. “Hey DiNovi, did you bring me a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, like you said you would?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said DiNovi, who was pulling his right skate on. “Decaf, right?”

“Wise ass. If it’s decaf, I’m going to veto any piece of legislation with your name on it for the next year.”

Outside the locker room, Dewey walked on the rubber mat to the rink door. The stands were empty except for a dozen or so Secret Service agents, spread out around the bleachers. Agents stood at both entrances; each man held what looked like a laptop bag across their torsos, one hand concealed. Inside were submachine guns.

Several players were already on the ice, skating in circles to warm up. Dewey stepped onto the ice and proceeded to go flying onto his butt. He slowly got to his knees, then stood. He began a slow circle around the rink. His skates, though rusty, were sharp. Still, it had been almost two decades since he’d skated and he was rusty. He watched as an older player, perhaps in his fifties, went flying by him. Then he caught Dellenbaugh, climbing onto the ice. The president quickly leapt into a full sprint around the outer edge of the ice, his skates making sharp cutting noises as he moved gracefully around the rink. Dellenbaugh was a sight to behold, his strides smooth, with tremendous speed. He circled twice, then came over to Dewey, slowing down alongside him.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

“Not bad,” said Dewey.

“You’re on D, next to me. Stay away from Tom DeGray.”