I chuckle, leaning against the doorframe. “We’ll think about it.”
Dash elbows me. “Think about it? Are you kidding? I’m already mentally moving in.”
Paul grins. “You two think on it. Night, boys.”
“Night, Paul,” I say, pushing the door open for Dash.
I don’t sleep.Not really. I close my eyes, but my head’s still buzzing from the hit, that dull, underwater throb that makes even the dark feel loud. The team doc told me no screens, so I ditch the phone and grab a pen instead. Paper doesn’t glow. Paper doesn’t sting.
I sit at the little hotel desk and start sketching. Lines, notes, ideas—half structure, half therapy. Not plays, not drills, just floorplans. Paul’s building keeps sneaking back into my head. I can picture the stoop, the old windows, the bones that somehow still hold.
When the city outside goes quiet enough to hear the radiator hiss, I call my parents. It’s early here, late there. They’re seven hours ahead, living the slow life in Italy now. Mom answers first, her voice soft but sharp, the second she hears the strain in mine.
“You should be resting,” she says.
“I am,” I lie. “Just thinking.”
Then my dad gets on, and I tell him about the brownstone—how it’s falling apart, how Paul still talks about it like it’s alive. I tell him I’ve been thinking about fixing it up, maybe giving it another shot at life.
“You don’t start swinging hammers without an inspection,” he says. “Find someone to walk it first. See what’s salvageable.”
I can almost see him leaning back in his chair, wine glass in hand, that old-world calm he’s perfected since retiring.
“Do it right, Deacon. You’ll sleep better if you build something instead of worrying it’ll fall on your head.”
He means the house, but it lands deeper than that.
By the time I hang up, the sun is rising. My head’s pounding, but my mind’s clear. I shower, pull on jeans, and head downstairs.
Dean Costello is in the lobby. This is nothing new; he owns the team, this hotel, and many other businesses, reading messages on his phone.
“You’re supposed to be taking it easy,” he says as I approach.
“I can’t just sit,” I tell him as I sit in one of the leather chairs beside him. “I need to do something.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“You know anyone in the city who can do a quick inspection? Old property, needs eyes on it. My dad said that’s step one before I start anything.”
Dean blinks, then huffs a laugh. “You get concussed and decide to become a contractor overnight?”
“Not for me,” I say. “For someone who deserves better.”
He studies me for a second, then types something into his phone. “Bronski’s place?” I nod. “I have a guy on payroll. Retired from the city planning board. I’ll shoot him your number, let him know when you want him to show up.”
“Appreciate it.”
He stands, “Rest. Stay off the ice tonight. You decide you can't stay away from the game tonight, head to the team box, it’s quiet and has fewer flashing lights.” He pauses and looks back at me, “Bring Bronski with you.”
I grab a bag of coffee and a bag full of bagels from the bakery down the block and head toward Greenwich, the morning biting at my face, my head still tender but my mind finally steady.
Paul’s on the stoop when I turn the corner, coat collar turned up, paper cup clutched in both hands like he’s trying to steal its heat. His cap’s a little crooked, the way it always is, and there’s a faint curl of steam rising from his coffee.
I slow down and hold up the paper bag. “Brought you breakfast.”
He smirks without looking at me. “You just missed her. She's off with the little spitfire who loves my birds and that left winger.”
“I'm not going to disrespect you by pretending I am not interested in Claudia. I am, but?—”
