"Goalies always get the highlights," I said. "Defense doesn't sell tickets."
JL laughed. It was short and dry, and it was the most human sound I'd ever heard him make.
"Tell me about it."
He moved to the cable machine and started adjusting the weight. I stayed on the floor with my foam roller, but the knot had loosened and I was running out of reasons to be here.
"Toronto was a lot," he said. His back was to me, his hands steady on the cable grip. "All those people. The cameras everywhere. Everyone wanting something."
"Yeah."
"And then you come home and it's..." He didn't finish. The cable clicked through its rotation in a steady rhythm.
I knew what he meant. The apartment that was too quiet, the phone that might or might not light up, the hours stretching out until you heard from whoever you were waiting for.
Except JL was married. His wife, Katelynn, showed up to every home game and posted Instagram stories with heart emojis.
"Katelynn didn't go with you to Toronto?"
His hands paused on the cable for half a second. The movement resumed, but something in the line of his back had changed.
"She had work." He kept his rhythm, not turning around. "Couldn't get the time off."
"That sucks."
"Yeah."
The word closed a door. I recognized that too.
"Long distance is hard," I said, not sure why I was still talking. "Even when it's not that far."
His grip on the cable handle went white at the knuckles for a beat, maybe less.
"Yeah." He started moving again. "It is."
Neither of us said anything else for a while. I switched to my other hip and worked the roller into the muscle, watching him from the corner of my eye. His jaw was set. His reps had gotten slower, the automatic quality gone.
"You do anything for the Foundation while you were up there?"
The question came out before I'd fully decided to ask it. Everyone knew about the Blue Line Foundation. The providedmental health resources for athletes, crisis lines, the kind of work that got mentioned in press releases and was promptly forgotten by anyone who didn't need it. JL's name was on the board of directors. I'd never thought much about why.
His whole body went still for a moment before he forced it back into motion.
"Some meetings. Fundraiser stuff." He finished his set and turned around, reaching for his water bottle. Whatever had been open in his face a moment ago was gone. "Stu's wife runs most of it now. I just show up when they need a name."
He meant Stu Sobylk, one of the greatest players of all time. Right up there with Grezky. The guy’d had everything. Best stats in the league, a loving wife, all the fame and fortune that came with a successful career.
And none of it had been enough to keep him from killing himself.
"I didn't know him," I said. "Before my time."
"He was good." JL's voice had gone flat. "Had me in Juniors. Taught me everything about reading the ice, anticipating the play before it happened." He took a long drink from the bottle. "I was angry back then. Didn't know what to do with any of it. Stu figured me out."
"I'm sorry," I said. "That he's gone."
JL looked at me for a long moment. His brown eyes were steady, unreadable, but something in the set of his mouth had shifted.
"Yeah," he said. "Me too."
