He turned and walked up the ramp, and I listened to his footsteps until they faded.
My apartment building didn't have a doorman. It had a front entrance that stuck in cold weather and a landlord who responded to maintenance requests on a less-than-urgent timeline.
I was on the third floor, end of the hall. Inside, the apartment was exactly as I'd left it: clean, with a narrow kitchen, a secondhand couch, and an alley view.
I was seeing it the way he would.
Since last April, the apartment had been enough. It was a place to sleep, eat, check my skates, and send money home. I'd never measured it against anyone else's life because I'd never invited anyone in whose opinion mattered.
Now someone was coming, and the space closed in, stealing my breath.
I checked the sheets. They were clean. I checked the bathroom. Passable. There was a water stain on the ceiling above the stove that I'd stopped seeing six months ago. I saw it now.
Five-forty a month. That's what Maggie had said two days ago. New prescription costs. Mortgage adjustment. Five hundred and forty dollars between my family and math that keeps you awake at 3 a.m., looking for money that isn't there no matter how many times you rearrange the numbers.
My NHL salary was infrastructure. Every dollar assigned before it arrived. The rest paid for my rent and groceries.
Every financial calculation I'd ever run assumed a version of me that understood wanting things for himself was a luxury the budget didn't include.
That version hadn't tasted Kieran Mathers' mouth in a stalled elevator.
I had three hours. I unpacked. Showered. Watched game film without absorbing a frame.
At nine, I closed the laptop and picked up my phone.
Heath:Tonight still work?
Kieran:Yeah. What time?
Heath:Whenever.
Kieran:Practice at 10am tomorrow.
Heath:I know.
A pause.
Kieran:Give me an hour.
I wiped down the kitchen counter because my hands needed something to do. Moved the coffee table six inches left and then four inches right. I laughed, realizing I thought the angle of a secondhand table would determine what happened next.
Kieran:On my way.
The knock was quiet. Two knuckles, twice. The knock of someone who had considered the volume.
Kieran stood in the hall in a dark jacket over a gray t-shirt and jeans. No team gear.
"Good to see you."
"Yeah, thanks for the invite."
I stepped back. He stepped in. My apartment shrank around him, or maybe he filled the space differently from anyone who'd been here before.
He scanned my apartment the way he scanned the ice. Quick, thorough: counter, couch, the alley light throwing a cold stripe across the floor.
"Can I take your jacket?"
He almost smiled. "You don't have to host me, Donnelly."
