Chapter twenty-one
Pratt
It tumbled over as I opened the door, and I was staring at a slim gentleman and a shorter man upside down on an off-white background. I blinked as I recognized the wordsFleetwood Mac. It was a vinyl album sleeve, and there was no doubt where it had come from.
I glanced at Sully's door, with no sound coming from that direction. Bending over, I picked it up by the edges and brought it inside, setting it flat on the corner of the counter.
My clock read five forty-two, and I started up the coffee. It was game day, and I had a meal to prepare.
The record stayed in my peripheral vision while the coffee brewed. When I had my mug in hand, I returned my attention to the cover.
It was the self-titled album Sully mentioned, notRumours. The corner of the price sticker was still there. The cardboard was soft along the bottom seam from years of handling.
I squared it against the counter's edge.
I didn't remove the vinyl, but I thought about how I'd listen to it later. I had a turntable tucked away in a closet. It was a well-meaning gift from a friend who insisted that it was excellent for converting vinyl collections to digital, but it was functional as a normal record player too. Plug it into speakers and go.
The only problem was I didn't have a vinyl collection. I tucked it away, thinking I might hear of someone who needed it for precisely that type of project.
Morning skate was in two hours. I pulled the uncooked chicken and carrots out of the refrigerator.
The text I sent before bed stared at me from my phone's screen.
Pratt:Knock when you're ready.
There was no reply. I hadn't expected one. The message didn't ask for an immediate response.
I put the chicken on the heat with a little olive oil, and the carrots landed in the air fryer. My rice was already cooked.
I crossed over to the living room.
I'd already folded the throw on the back of the couch. I refolded it. Sully had pulled it down and put it over his lap when he told me about Bryan. The throw pillows were already where I kept them. I moved one a quarter inch and then moved it back.
The two books on the side table sat stacked the way I had left them. I straightened the stack.
In the bathroom, I refolded the hand towel. The mirror and counter were clean.
The entire condo was how I preferred it. It was ready for surprise visitors while still being comfortable enough for daily life.
A timer went off in the kitchen. I went back, plated the food, and ate without sitting down.
Sully's door was still quiet when I left. He was either still sleeping, or he was waiting.
I was the first player on the ice. I made my two passes, set my edges, tapped both posts, and my day collapsed down to the size of a puck.
Coach ran a structured session. He put us through three blocks of drills, but we didn't scrimmage. Forwards came up the ice in waves, and the defense collapsed back to meet them. Holt was paired with Rook on the left side. It worked.
Kieran came down the right wing on the first rep and dropped the puck back to Cross. He fed Varga at the dot. The shot came glove-side. I stopped it.
"Again."
This time it was cleaner. I directed a rebound into Heath's stick at the half-wall.
"Again."
Faster. Kieran adjusted his entry and pulled wide before passing to Cross. The shot came from a different angle. I tracked it and let it hit me chest-high.
We ran it again with the forwards rotating across to the weak side. Three of them pushed high. Two collapsed down the boards. Holt held his man without over-committing. Rook closed the gap behind him without making a show of it. The puck came to me. I had the angle.
