My right index knuckle had stiffened further during the game, the joint thick and reluctant when I flexed it. It was something to mention to the training staff in the morning.
Varga was still talking when I left. He was always still talking when I left.
I was home by eleven. The lobby lights were low, night mode, when I entered. The front desk glowed, with the rest of the room dim. Martin, the doorman, looked up.
“Nice work tonight,” he said. “That last sequence in the third—was something.”
“Thank you.”
I crossed to the elevators. Hit the button. Stood with my bag still on my shoulder.
He watched me for a second. “You always make it look easy.”
“It isn’t," I said. "It's repeatable."
He smiled at that, as if he’d expected it. “Still.”
The elevator doors opened. I stepped in and turned, hand on the panel, and realized I hadn’t selected a floor.
I pressed it. The doors closed.
The note was where I'd left it.
After changing into shorts and t-shirt, I came back to the kitchen. I wasn't hungry, but my body needed post-game fuel. I cracked two eggs into a pan and dropped bread in the toaster.
I ate at the counter, staring at Sully's note.
For most of the day, I'd pushed thoughts of him away. I had to focus on the game. Now, I had time, a few minutes before bed.
He'd taken the left side of the couch without asking, one arm along the back, body angled toward me. Sully didn't sprawl. He settled himself and adjusted to face me.
His hands moved when he talked, not nervously, but as part of the conversation. When he laughed, the sound was loud and unguarded, unmistakably real.
He'd kissed me yesterday, and this morning he'd found a notepad to connect again.
I put my dishes in the dishwasher, turned off the kitchen light, and left the lamp on .
I was still awake at one when I heard his key next door. The door opened and closed. There was no music at first. The tap ran briefly, and I heard the creak of his couch taking on weight.
I could place him in the room.
Shirt pushed up slightly where it had caught at his side. One arm across the back of the couch with the other hand loose against his thigh. His head would tip back, eyes half-closed, waiting.
There was nothing for a while. Then it came through the wall.
One knock. The single point of contact in the dark. He'd done it first several weeks ago.
The silence after it was complete.
I lay still, and my heart pounded at a rate I associated with the last minutes of a tied game. It wasn't panic. It was the body at full attention, waiting for the next thing to happen.
Thirty seconds. Maybe more.
He didn't press. Sully didn't apply pressure anywhere. He offered one knock.
My hand moved. I pressed my palm flat against the drywall. The surface was cool and slightly rough under my palm.
Then I curled my fingers into a fist and knocked once.
