He'd played hard. Two shifts in the third where he'd held position in traffic while bodies piled in around him, refusing to peel away even when the play had moved on. Markel had trusted him in high-leverage minutes, and Heath had answered with effort that was almost painful to watch.
Almost. The upside was watching Heath Donnelly try was like watching someone hold a door open with their whole body. You couldn't look away.
He just sat there on the bench. Still wearing the game because taking it off meant admitting it was over.
I knew that posture. I'd built my entire life on a more polished version of it.
The difference was Heath's version looked like it hurt.
Mine looked like discipline.
While I watched, Heath reached up and pulled his jersey over his head. The fabric caught on his shoulder pads, and he wrestled with it for a second. His hair stood up at odd angles when he emerged. The back of his neck was flushed from effort, sweat still visible along his hairline.
I showered. Let the water run too hot. Stood with both palms flat against the tile until my breathing slowed.
One more season. That was the deal. My plan. A clean, carefully detailed exit.
I turned the water off. Dressed in the suit I'd hung that morning, because that's what professionals did after losses. They put on a suit and walked out, pretending it hadn't touched them.
The bus idled at the arena's loading dock. We were all quiet.
I took an aisle seat midway back. Rook sat across the aisle. Upright. Eyes forward.
Three rows ahead and to the left, Heath sat alone.
Window seat. Forehead nearly touching the glass. His suit jacket was off, sleeves pushed up past his forearms. The flush on the back of his neck was gone. I checked.
His phone was in his hand. He looked at it once.
I watched his jaw tighten. A single, involuntary compression. He didn't scroll. Didn't type. Only absorbed whatever was on the screen and put the phone face down on his thigh.
My father would call tomorrow. Not tonight. He'd wait until morning, let the sting settle into something workable, then offer his analysis.
What did you learn?
That's what he always asked. Never,how do you feel?
Ahead, Heath hadn't moved. Still facing the window.
And I still watched him. Three rows back, across an aisle, through the dark. I didn't look away and pretend I was doing something else, because there was no one awake enough to catch me.
I closed my eyes. He was still there, an afterimage of his forearms and fingertips on the window glass.
***
The hotel lobby was bright. Painfully so after the dark cabin of the bus. Equipment staff distributed key cards. Players headed toward the elevators in loose clusters.
Heath collected his key card and moved toward the elevator bank without looking back.
I collected mine. Room 1214.
Rook stepped into the first car with three other defensemen. I hung back.
The second elevator was still descending. I watched the numbers drop. 8. 7. 6.
Heath stood in front of it. Alone. His bag hung from one shoulder, pulling his jacket off-center.
The doors opened. Heath stepped in and moved to the back corner. Instinctively. I followed him in.
