Stanley snaps back, “What the fuck? Can you see the future? Are you planning to kill me?”
I glare at him. “He means on the run, dumbass. You’re still hungover.”
Stanley stands with that for a thought, and then he looks down at his pasta. “Oh. Yeah, right. Suddenly, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Yeah.”
“Eat your pasta, Stan,” I call out.
“I am eating my pasta, fucker.”
The path behind campus is the path we always take. We go out the back of the house and cut across the south lawn and pick up the loop where it crosses behind the science buildings. The October air has gotten serious, and Blue’s t-shirt is too thin.
We run the first mile without talking. Blue is the only guy in the house who knows when to let me be quiet. We have been doing this since freshman year. We did it in February when Blue’s grandmother died, then we did it in April when my agent first called, and we are doing it again because I cannot sit around and stare at my phone any longer.
The path comes around the back of the chemistry building and dips into the small ravine where the cross-country team practices.
Around the second mile, between Camdenths, Blue says, “You good?”
“Not according to the Hawthorne House rules.”
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah.”
We keep running. We finish the loop in a little over three miles. By the time we get back to the house, I’m sweating through Blue’s shirt and my head is, for the first time all day, quiet. We walk the last block to cool down. Blue doesn’t ask me anything else.
In the kitchen, Blue pours us both glasses of water. I drink mine standing at the sink. Stanley is asleep on the couch with the tupperware in his lap and the TV still on.
“Thanks, Blue.”
“Yeah.”
“Want your shirt back?”
“Yeah, later.” He puts down the cup in the sink. “Good run.”
I go upstairs and shower. I look at my phone one more time. She hasn’t texted. I consider texting her but remember that I texted her three different times last night without hearing back from her. I need to give her space. I put the phone out of my reach and fall asleep faster than I expected to.
Monday morning practice is fine until the second drill. It’s the same forecheck drill we have run a hundred times because I am, for the entire third rep, thinking about whether I have a text from my cute tutor. When Coach blows the whistle, I know I’ve done it.
“Reeve.”
I skate over. He has his arms crossed. “Coach.”
“Your head’s at seventy today. What’s going on?”
“Family stuff.”
He looks at me in disbelief, and I get it. I never have family problems. He takes a moment and then he says, “I’m not goingto ask what it is, but I want you to think long and hard about the day you’re in the NHL and if this family stuff is worth your performance. Do you hear me? It’s a mental game just as much as it is physical.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now,” he says sternly. “You’re going to leave it at the door or channel it productively. Get back out there and prove that you’re a pro.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Run it again.”
