The building filled back up in layers. Rook first, as though he'd materialized from the foundations. Pratt arrived with Tupperware full of Christmas cookies. Varga came in seventeenminutes late with a sunburn from a mysterious holiday destination.
Markel ran contact drills for an hour. The rust showed. He wanted the hesitation worked out of us before the schedule resumed.
After practice, I was in the hallway between the rink and the training room. Four steps from the exit, I heard footsteps behind me.
"Mathers."
It was Coach.
He walked toward me with his hands in his jacket pockets.
"Contract's still open," he said.
"I'm aware."
"Thompson's patient. Ownership's less so. The window's real, Kieran." He used my first name. "I'm not telling you what to decide. I'm telling you that not deciding is also a decision, and it's one other people will make for you if you let them."
"I understand."
He checked his watch.
"The team looks different with you on it," he said. "Both of you."
He held my gaze one beat past comfortable.
"Be smart."
Coach Markel walked away. Four strides and a turn through the training room door. Gone.
Be smart.
We spent New Year's Eve at the Northbound, celebrating the memory of a night months ago. It was half-empty. We took a back booth with a sightline to Melvin's tank.
The Oscar was active, slow circuits along the glass, pausing to track any nearby movement.
Heath waved at him.
"He likes me," Heath said.
"He's maintaining visual contact with a perceived food source."
"Helikesme."
We didn't order champagne. We sat with our beers and comfortable ease between us.
The countdown to the East Coast ball drop started on the television above the bar. The bartender turned the volume up a single notch.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
Heath's knee pressed against mine under the table.
Four. Three. Two.
He stared across the table at me.
One.
Heath rose partway and leaned across the booth to kiss me. Unhurried. His mouth was on mine like it was the next logical thing in a sequence that had been building all week.
