I see Cap’s face, frozen in surprise, not pain, and I remember the first time he called me “rookie,” how he slapped my mask and told me I was going to “fucking kill it” out there.
The memories come in waves, and after the third or fourth I give up, roll onto my side, and grab the phone.
There’s a text from Nia, “Call me when you can.”
I stare at it for a full minute before putting the phone face down on the rug.
Instead, I scroll the news, looking for any update on the second shooter, but the story’s gone stale, replaced by the latest outrage or scandal or whatever.
There’s a writeup about the Steelhawks in the local, a puff piece about “healing as a team” and “bravery in the face of adversity,” but it’s all recycled quotes and hollow optimism.
They use a photo from the vigil, me and Ash in the background, and I wonder if anyone else sees the white-knuckled grip I’ve got on his arm, like I was afraid if I let go we’d both be erased.
I go to the fridge, find nothing worth eating, and instead drink two glasses of water and pour myself a shot of whiskey, which I don’t even want, but sometimes the ritual is all that matters.
I stand in the kitchen, glass in hand, and look out at the gray morning, the way the city is still moving, indifferent to the fact that half of it is still bleeding out.
I think about going back to bed, but instead I get dressed, lace up the shoes, and head out to the track an hour early, just to be safe.
The field is empty except for a group of old guys walking laps and a single jogger who looks like she hates every second of it.
I jog a warmup lap, then sit on the bleachers and watch the clouds. I wonder if this is what it’ll be like forever, marking time in circuits, waiting for the next disaster, never really moving forward.
Ash shows up at 3:55, as predicted.
He’s wearing shorts even though it’s barely above freezing, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off.
He looks almost happy, which is such a foreign sight that for a second I wonder if I’m dreaming.
He sits beside me, says nothing, just looks at the field, and after a minute we get up and start running.
We don’t race, don’t even try to keep pace, but we stay close, just enough that I can hear his footsteps, the steady slap of his shoes on the track, and it’s weirdly comforting, like the old days when the only thing that mattered was not being the last guy off the ice.
Earlier, at the gym, I spotted him on squats. Stood behind him, hands hovering near his hips, close enough to catch him if he buckled. He didn't buckle.
But the proximity was electric, I could feel the heat coming off his back, smell the sweat cutting through his shirt, and my hands stayed hovering even after he racked the bar.
I told myself it was just spotting. I knew it wasn't.
We do four laps, then sit again, both winded but not dead.
He looks at me, and this time the smile is real. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” I say, and mean it.
“Yeah. Me neither.”
We sit, breathing, staring at the dead grass. Eventually, he says, “You think it’s possible to just, like, move on?”
“Not for people like us,” I say, and he nods.
We don’t talk after that. He leaves first, again, and I sit for a while, watching the sun go down, the sky fading from gray to blue to black.
On the way home, I see a news van parked by the old arena, the satellite dish pointing at nothing, the reporter inside probably waiting for a new lead or a better angle.
I drive past, eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel.
At home, I eat peanut butter straight from the jar, then fall asleep on the couch with the TV on mute.
