The first night was chicken thighs with rice. Heath seasoned without measuring; pinches and pours calibrated by internal instincts. When I asked what was in the marinade, he said, "Stuff."
The second night was pasta. Sauce from a jar, but Heath added things to it: garlic, red pepper flakes, and a dangerous amount of hot sauce. "My mom's method," he said, stirring with a wooden spoon. "She calls it 'improving the situation.' You take what you've got and you make it better without pretending it's something it isn't."
He served it in mismatched bowls. Mine was larger.
The kitchen was a two-person space only in the sense that two people could technically occupy it if one stood at the stove andthe other pressed flat against the refrigerator. We'd developed a system by the second night. Heath cooked, and I stayed out of range until called.
The one time I tried to help, I reached past him for a colander and caught his elbow with my ribs. He said "behind" the way you do on the ice, except we weren't on the ice, we were in a galley kitchen and my hip was against the counter and his shoulder was against my chest.
After that, I stayed on the couch until the food was ready.
We ate on the floor in the living room. The television played a renovation show at low volume, with couples arguing about backsplash tile.
"They're going to pick the subway tile," Heath said.
"Everyone picks the subway tile."
"It's functional and inoffensive. It's the Mattias Rook of kitchen design."
I almost choked on my pasta.
I learned, over the course of the first two days, what Heath Donnelly looked like without worrying about his permanence on the roster.
On the ice, he lived inside a permanent audition. Here, on the floor with sauce on his chin, he spoke without editing himself. Stories from Rhinelander, loose and lacking in self-consciousness.
"It's drier. Wisconsin's cold is honest about what it is. Chicago's cold pretends to be reasonable and then gets you with the wind."
"You're assigning moral qualities to weather."
"All weather has moral qualities. That's not a controversial stance."
"Name one person who agrees with you," I insisted
"Any meteorologist."
"Meteorologists are cowards."
I said it with a forkful of pasta suspended midway to my mouth. Heath laughed. It was a genuine laugh, starting below the diaphragm.
The third morning, I woke before him. He lay on his stomach, one arm off the mattress, mouth open. While sleeping, he sprawled. Arms wide, legs splayed diagonally across the full-size bed, overlapping mine where necessary.
I made coffee with his machine. When he appeared in boxers and a frayed t-shirt, he poured a cup and drank half of it standing before turning toward me.
"Morning."
"You've been awake for twenty minutes."
"Coffee comes first. Then language." He leaned against the counter. "What do you want to do today?"
I had to think. Nobody asked me that. My days arrived pre-loaded: practice, film, weight room, media, recovery. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a block of hours with nothing scheduled.
"I don't know," I said.
Heath sipped his coffee. "Good answer."
We did nothing. At least nothing of note. Heath read on the couch. I sat at the other end and didn't read. We existed in the same room without an agenda.
Heath picked up the TV remote. He flipped channels until he found something acceptable.
