Sully's condo was warm, not in temperature but in the space's quality. I took it in from a step inside the door. I'd heard about the too-large rug and the printer box in the corner.
A dish towel hung from the oven handle at a crooked angle. One lamp was on, and a vinyl album sleeve lay face down on the coffee table.
All of that was clear at first glance. I turned my attention to Sully.
He'd moved to the kitchen counter and set the soup container down.
"You've got soup," I said.
"I've got soup." His voice was a fraction lower than usual. "You want some?"
I could have said no. I nearly did. It was late, past midnight.
He pulled out two bowls without waiting for my response.
I stayed.
The soup was a starting point.
Sully reheated it on the stove. It was tomato, and he added things he pulled from the cabinet. There was a shake of something red, a small pour of cream, and a grind of black pepper. He measured nothing, stirred it twice, and let it heat.
"Grilled cheese," he said, pulling bread from the top of the refrigerator. "Non-negotiable. It's a lockout tax. You don't get to opt out of the grilled cheese."
"I didn't agree to a lockout tax."
"You hold the key. That's an agreement." He was already at the stove, buttering bread slices. "It's in the small print. You should have read the terms."
I leaned against the counter and watched him work. He was less polished than at the bar, but his movements still signaled confidence.
The bread went in. He pressed it flat with the back of a spatula.
"Do you always look like that after a game?" he asked.
"Like what?"
"Like you're still in it. Still running the—" He waved a hand. "The whatever it is you run on the ice." He tapped his temple briefly with one finger and turned back to the stove.
"The adrenaline declines after."
"How long?"
A couple of hours. Depends on the game."
"Is that why you're awake when the bars let out?"
"Partly."
"What's the other part?"
"It's a sequence. The night has a sequence and sleep is at the end."
Sully flipped the sandwich. One corner was darker than the rest. He looked at it, decided something, and reached for thebread knife to address the situation. "Do you watch it back the same night? The game."
"Only if something needs correcting."
"What if nothing does?"
"Then I don't."
