“She likes everyone.”
We came back around toward the main gate, the loop closing, Biscuit trotting ahead with her leash trailing and the smug satisfaction of a creature who'd gotten what she wanted out of the morning. Hartley scooped it up without breaking stride, and we slowed as the gate came into view.
“This is me,” he said, nodding toward the street. “Leah's is back the other way.”
“Right.” I stopped, and he stopped, and Biscuit sat on my foot again immediately, like she'd been waiting for the opportunity. “Walk her at least once more before your sister gets home. Proper distance.”
He looked at the dog. The dog looked at him. “I know how to walk a dog, Coach.”
“You said it took forty minutes to go around the block.”
“Because she kept stopping.”
“That's not a walk. That's a negotiation.”
He pressed his lips together, and I could tell he was trying not to smile, which was a problem in the same category as the sweatpants and the peanut butter on his sleeve.
Biscuit chose this moment to stand up, shake herself thoroughly, and attempt to walk directly between my legs, which required me to take a significant step sideways and briefly grab the nearby fence for balance, which broke whatever was happening with something approaching mercy.
“Biscuit,” Hartley said, in the voice of a man at the end of his rope.
Biscuit wagged.
“Get her home,” I said, because I needed to finish this conversation before the part of my brain that was still functional stopped working entirely. “Feed her. Walk her again at noon.”
“Yes, Coach.” The smile was fully there now, warm and a little unguarded, the real version that I'd learned looked different from the one he used for cameras. “Thank you. For this.”
“We just ran.”
“Still.” He tugged Biscuit's leash gently in the direction they needed to go, and the dog came with him after one last look at me—assessing, patient, in the way of creatures who understood more than was convenient. “See you, Coach.”
“See you,” I agreed.
I watched him go for exactly as long as it took me to recognize that I was watching him go, at which point I turned around and started running back toward my apartment at a pace that was slightly faster than necessary for a man who'd already had a cinnamon roll and two miles on his legs.
The run home took eleven minutes.
I spent nine of them not thinking about Hartley. Tried not to anyway.
I needed to shower,but first I made myself deal with at least one box. A small step. A manageable commitment.
I grabbed the one labeled “personal” and immediately regretted it.
Old photos. Jerseys from my playing days. A framed picture of my parents at one of my games, both of them smiling like I'd just won them the lottery.
I pulled out a jersey from my rookie season and held it up. Number twenty-seven. A bottom-six grinder who'd made a career out of doing the unglamorous work nobody wanted. I'd been good at it. Not great. Not memorable. Just good enough to stick around for eight seasons before my body gave out.
I folded it and put it back in the box. No point dwelling on who I used to be.
Under the jersey was a knee brace—old-school, bulky, the thing I'd worn for my last two seasons after the cartilage in my left knee decided it was done cooperating.
I pulled it out and sat on the floor, holding it.
This was the evidence. The reason I'd retired at thirty-one instead of playing until my body completely fell apart. The reason I'd transitioned to coaching faster than most guys, because what else was I going to do? Hockey was the only language I spoke fluently.
The knee still ached sometimes. Cold mornings. Long days on my feet. A reminder that I'd pushed this body past reasonable limits and it had responded by breaking down piece by piece.
I should've thrown the brace away years ago. But I'd kept it—proof, maybe, that I'd earned my place in this world through pain and discipline and the ability to show up even when everything hurt.
