“It’s perfect,” I lied.
He grinned—relieved, maybe, that I wasn’t going to make this harder than it already was. “Cool. You hungry? There’s a Thai place down the block that delivers.”
“Yeah. Sounds good.”
Avery shut the door behind him.
I stared at my suitcases until my vision blurred. Two bags. Twenty-one years, boiled down to what I could carry without paying an extra fee.
Tomorrow, I’d pretend this was a choice.
3. Derek
“Good morning, Mr. Sullivan,” Stanley called from the security desk.
I dropped a paper bag on his desk—an old fashioned donut from the coffee shop around the corner. They were famous for them and it was genuinely tortuous to stop in just for coffee. Someone should enjoy a donut.
“C’mon Stanley. Mr. Sullivan is my dad. Derek, please.”
He lifted the bag and peered inside, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Thanks, Derek.”
I swiped my badge and headed to the weight room. Thomas, our team trainer, was already there, and so was Kenzo Carter-Volsky. No one worked harder than that man. He was thrashing battle ropes, his shaved head slicked with sweat, compression shirt plastered to his body like a second skin. He moved with the focused intensity of someone who had something to prove, even after four seasons and an All-Star nod. Thomas nodded to me as I cut through to the locker room to drop off my stuff.
Avery sat in his stall texting, long legs sprawled, tattoos crawling down his arms. He looked up with that faintly stern resting face that meant nothing—off the ice he was the most easygoing person on the roster. Was the first to congratulate you on a goal. Remembered everyone’s birthday. Even brought in homemade brownies for the team once.
“Hey, Sully.”
“Sup Avery, what’s new?”
I set my bag down and changed out of my street shoes. My knee ached dully, the way it always did in the morning. Probably always would.
“Did I tell you my brother is moving in with me? He just got in yesterday.”
“Yeah, I think you mentioned it. Mathéo?”
“Théo. Yeah.” He turned his phone face down on his knee, something shifting in his expression—not quite discomfort, but close. “It’s weird to live with him again. I moved out at 18 for the OHL, then came down here. We haven’t been under the same roof since we were kids.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
He considered that for a moment. “Just weird. He’s going through some stuff. Needed a change of scenery.”
I didn’t push. You learn fast on a team: some doors aren’t yours to open. “Can’t imagine living with my brothers again. Ethan was always a slob and Jimmy loses his mind if you touch his shit.”
That got a short laugh out of him. “We’re only ten months apart, so our shit was always each other’s shit. Shared everything. Rooms, gear, ice time.” He paused. “Anyway. We’re going to IKEA after practice to pick up some furniture for his room.”
“Ugh, good luck. Traffic’s going to be a bitch.”
“Don’t remind me.”
I stuffed my gym bag in my locker. “You ready?”
He nodded, stuck his phone on the top shelf of his locker, and shut the door with a clang.
???
Thomas didn’t believe in mercy. No exceptions. Didn’t matter if you were a rookie or a two time Cup winner. He moved through the room with his clipboard like a general surveying a battlefield, adjusting form here, adding weight there, ignoring complaints with the serene indifference of a man who had heard every excuse.
Lucas Morrison, our team captain, arrived at just past eight. He was 32 with an active toddler at home and somehow still keeping pace with 22 year old Avery, which was either impressive or deeply unfair depending on how you looked at it. Thomas put the two of them through jumping lunges in the open floor space—Morrison silent and focused, Avery making the occasional noise of protest that Thomas cheerfully ignored.
