“Is that what we’re calling it?” He grinned to show he was teasing. “Looks more like you moved in yesterday.”
“I’m still getting used to having my own space. It’s my first own apartment.”
Not a lie. Technically.
“That makes sense. Tank and I are sharing a shoebox of a dorm room. I can’t wait to get a private dorm room next year where I can actually spread out.”
We moved into the living room, where the components of the cabinet somehow seemed to have multiplied during my brief absence.
Adan surveyed the scene with the expression of someone assessing a battlefield. He cracked his knuckles. “Where’s the instruction manual?”
I handed him the booklet, and he flipped through it quickly, nodding as he took in the diagrams.
“This doesn’t look too bad. You need to organize the pieces first. That’s always the key. Lay everything out so you can see what you’re working with.”
He started sorting through the components with an efficiency that made me slightly embarrassed about my earlier flailing. Within minutes, he had everything organized into neat piles according to size and function, while I disassembled my failed attempt.
He settled onto the floor across from me. “Now we can actually see what we’re doing.”
“You seem to have experience with this.”
“My dad’s super handy. He taught me a lot of basic skills. Said every man should know how to use tools.” Adan picked up one of the panels and examined it.
We started working, Adan interpreting the instructions aloud while I held pieces in place. There was something unexpectedly soothing about the process: the clear steps, the tangible progress, the satisfaction of seeing parts come together into something functional.
“So is this like a rite of passage in Sweden?” Adan asked as we fitted the first two panels together. “Everyone has to prove they can build IKEA furniture?”
“More or less. Though I’m clearly failing the test.”
“Nah, you just needed a better system. My dad always says the instructions are written by engineers who’ve never actually built anything themselves. And in this case, they weren’t written at all. If you’re not good at interpreting pictures, you’re screwed.”
“Your father sounds like a practical man.”
“He is. He works in a stamping plant, where they make car parts. But he also does small handyman jobs, fixing things around the neighborhood for people.” Adan secured a connection and tested its stability. “He’s the one who got me into hockey. There was this outdoor rink near our house, and he’d take me there every weekend in the winter.”
“He played?”
“All his life, but recreationally. Nothing serious. But when I was seven or so, he saw I had real talent, so he signed me up for travel hockey, working extra hours to pay for that and for better equipment.” Adan’s voice carried a mixture of pride and something that might’ve been guilt. “I don’t think he ever imagined it would go this far.”
“Are your parents able to come watch you play?”
“One of them will be at home games, but they can’t always make it if we play somewhere else. It’s expensive to travel, and neither of them can really take time off work.” He passed me a screw to hold in place. “I keep telling them that once I make it to the NHL, I’m gonna buy them season tickets to the Sabres. Front-row seats.”
“The Sabres?” I had to fight to keep my voice neutral. The Buffalo Sabres weren’t exactly ranking high. Had they even won a championship, like, ever?
Adan sighed. “I know. They’re… not great. But they’re our team, you know?”
There was something about that local loyalty that I found endearing. “I’m sure they’re proud of you regardless of where you play.”
“Yeah, they are. Sometimes, they’re prouder than I am.” He laughed. “My mom still has every newspaper clipping from when I scored my first hat trick in high school. She’s got this whole scrapbook.”
The image of Adan’s mother carefully cutting out newspaper articles and pasting them into a scrapbook had warmth spread inside me. It was such a normal, loving gesture, and so different from the way achievements were documented in my world. “That’s wonderful. She sounds very supportive.”
“She is. They both are. Sometimes, I think that’s more pressure than if they were expecting me to fail, you know? Like, I can’t let them down because they’ve invested so much.”
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythmic process of assembly creating a sort of meditative calm. Adan was surprisingly good at this: patient, methodical, good with his hands. He approached the project the same way he approached hockey drills: with complete focus and determination to get it right.
“Hand me that cam lock,” he said, pointing to one of the small metal pieces.
