I opened the door. Sully was holding a paper bag from the Thai place two blocks south, the one with the orange awning. He lifted the bag slightly and said, "Ordered too much," already moving past me toward the counter. "I almost knocked at two the other night, but this is better."
"I was in the middle of something." I stepped out of his way.
"We all have to eat, Pratt." He paused briefly to survey the space before moving to the counter and setting the bag down, less than six inches from the bottle of wine.
"I watched some of the Columbus game," he said, unwrapping containers. "From last week. I saw it at the bar. I think I understand about forty percent of what's happening now."
He set both lids aside and oriented the open faces toward me. "That save in the second period where the guy comes in from the left and you just—" He made a lateral motion with one hand, flat and decisive. "I didn't even see where the puck went."
"Glove side. It went wide."
"Yeah, that figures." He leaned against the counter. "Do you always know that fast?"
"If I'm reading the entry correctly."
"Is that what it looks like from in there? In that mask? Just—reading it."
"Yes."
He nodded once and returned his attention to the food. He pulled a plastic fork out of the bag and held it up, waiting. I opened a cabinet and a drawer, pulling out plates and two stainless forks.
Sully blushed slightly. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Some wine, too?" I asked.
"Yeah. It's a good bottle."
The overhead light caught one side of his face and left the other in shadow, and I noticed for the first time that his nose was slightly off-center, a few degrees from true. The deviation only resolved in direct, uneven light. It was a healed fracture, managed well.
I handed Sully wine glasses and a corkscrew. "The music," I said. "It's mostly Fleetwood Mac."
"Good music."
"Mostly the same three albums."
"They made good ones." He popped the wine cork and filled a glass before pushing it toward me. I scooped Pad Thai onto the plates.
As Sully pulled his hand back from the glass, it landed on mine, fingers settling for a moment against the back of my hand before he said, "Extra soy sauce. I think there's soy sauce in the bag," and withdrew. There was no soy sauce.
I ate standing and didn't offer seating. It was the efficient choice for a meal that wouldn't take long. He leaned against the kitchen sink, and it was quiet while we ate.
Halfway through, Sully paused with a forkful of Pad Thai halfway to his mouth. "Do you ever—I mean—ever slam one of those guys into the wall?"
"I'm a goalie."
Sully's brow furrowed slightly. "Yeah, right."
When the food was gone, he packed up the bag and the empty boxes. "Thanks, neighbor. I'm not really a leftovers guy, and I hate to throw it away." Ten seconds later, he was gone.
There was a faint ring of condensation on the counter where the containers had been sitting. I wiped it with a dishcloth, rinsed it, and hung it back in its place.
An hour later, I prepared for the fact that tomorrow was a game day.
I pulled a blanket out of the closet. I laid it flat beside the bed and smoothed it with both hands, pressing out the folds so nothing would bunch under my shoulders.
The floor's cold came through it. That was good.
I turned off the lights and lay on my back, hands set, staring up at the dark ceiling.
I ran back through the variables from the day and assigned each one a place in my thoughts. I had the trade news and the defense coverage gap we would need to fix.
Next, I reached the part where Sully's hand had landed on mine. His touch had been warm. His fingers were slightly rough at the tips, understandable with his work at the bar. There was weight when his hand rested on mine.
I filed him in a temporary spot. It took two passes at the memory to get there.
