I lay in the dark and listened to Dad's breathing through the thin walls. Outside, the sky was black, not even a hint of gray on the horizon.
I turned over, punched the pillow into a different shape, and closed my eyes.
At 4:23, I got up and brushed my teeth. At 4:31 I put on coffee I didn't drink. At 4:38 I sat at the kitchen table in the dark, keys in my hand, not moving.
The rink would still be there. The ice would still be there. I could skate at normal hours with my team like a person who had his shit together.
I put the keys down, then picked them up again.
I had a game tonight. I had a father who needed me. I had a life that had been working fine before Joel Coffey walked into it, and showing up to an empty rink for the fourth day in a row wasn't going to change anything.
I set the keys on the counter and went back to bed.
I didn't sleep. I lay there and watched the ceiling turn gray, then pale, then bright with morning sun. At eight I got up and made Dad breakfast and counted out his pills and sat with him while he ate, and he knew who I was today, which was something.
Practice was good. I ran drills until my legs burned and my hip screamed and there wasn't room for anything else. Coach pulled me aside after and said I looked focused. I nodded and said I was feeling good.
The game that night was better.
I played like I was trying to prove something to someone who wasn't there. Three assists. A fight I actually won, some forward who'd been running his mouth all night until I shut it for him. Santos had to pull me off before I did something stupid, and when I skated to the penalty box, I was grinning so hard my face hurt.
"You looked like a different person out there," Santos said after. We were in the locker room, still in gear, the post-game buzz running through the room.
I drove home and went to bed at eleven like a normal person, setting my alarm for eight.
I woke up at 4:12 anyway and lay there, staring at the same ceiling I'd been staring at all week. Then I turned over, pulled the blanket up, and closed my eyes.
But when I did, all I could see was his face. All I could hear was his voice saying my name.
At 4:47 I was in my truck, driving toward the rink.
The hotel room cost four hundred dollars a night and had a view of the Hollywood Hills that I hadn't looked at once.
I was on the floor in a split, laptop open on the carpet in front of me, watching a hockey game on a streaming site I'd had to pay twelve dollars to access. The Rio Rancho Ristras were playing the Fort Worth Longhorns, broadcast on some local New Mexico channel with a viewership of maybe thirty people.
Thirty-one now.
I'd looked up their schedule before I left New Mexico and told myself it was idle curiosity. I'd found the streaming site Sunday night and bookmarked it and told myself that was idle too. Today was Thursday. The game was from Tuesday night. I'd missed it live and was catching up.
None of it was idle. I just couldn't stop.
The Ristras were losing badly, 4-1 in the second period, and Red had been on the ice for two of those goals against. He skated back to the bench, slammed through the gate, and put his head in his hands.
I switched legs and kept watching.
The photoshoot had been that morning, some athletic wear brand that wanted me for their spring campaign. Four hours of holding poses while a photographer told me to look fierce but approachable. My agent had tacked on a dinner meeting afterward for contract negotiations, and I'd smiled and said all the right things while my mind kept circling back to a parking lot in the desert and a voice saying "Robert. My name is Robert."
I hadn't planned to run. When Red said he'd see me Monday, I'd meant it when I agreed. But Saturday morning I'd woken up with the taste of him still in my mouth, and I'd known that if I went to that rink and saw him again, I wasn't going to be able to pretend it was nothing.
So I'd called my agent and said I could make the LA meetings after all.
On screen, Red was back on the ice. He was skating slower than usual, favoring his left side. The camera followed the puck instead of him, and I leaned closer, trying to track his movements in the background.
The Longhorns scored again. 5-1. Red was on the bench when it happened, but his jaw tightened as the puck hit the net.
Armijo said something to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Red looked up. The corner of his mouth lifted.
My fingers dug into the carpet. I made myself let go.
