“Look at her little face,” I say, gripping the gate. “I can’t take this. I’m going to pass out.”
“Her face is mathematically identical to the other faces,” Berger says. “They possess standard kitten dimensions.”
“Were you or were you not the one who built a spreadsheet ranking them on the day they were born?” Thompson asks.
Thompson is at the wall by the doorframe. Arms crossed. Not getting a kitten. Eleven goals this season. Nineteen assists. But zero Avi Praise. He and Fontenot tied in Berger’s system, and Fontenot broke the tie because Avi praised his breakout pass, said it had nice hands, and there were witnesses. Thompson has spent the whole season playing solid hockey instead of tryingto get the captain’s attention, and in Berger’s universe that’s a strategic error. Thommo showed up anyway.
In this system, I get to go first. I’ve known I was first since Berger posted the final leaderboard in the group chat two nights ago and Thompson replied with a single exclamation point. Most devastating punctuation this roster has ever seen.
I step over the baby gate and crouch down. Five kittens. All five doing something. The orange tabby is asleep with one paw over her face. The gray one is trying to scale the baby gate with a focus I admire. I pick up the orange tabby. She’s warm. Her whole body vibrates against my chest, this tiny motor through my shirt. I put her down, pick up the gray one, who gives me a look that says I’ve interrupted a summit meeting. I put her down and go back to the orange tabby.
She’s awake now. One ear angled toward me like she heard the whole audition and has notes. I pick her up again and she tucks against my chest and I’m done.
“Marchetti.” Thompson says from the doorframe. “You are not selecting a draft pick.”
“This is harder than a draft pick.” I have the kitten against my chest and my phone in my other hand. “Ma, I’m sending you a picture. Tell me if this is the one.”
“Matteo? What is happening?”
“I’m holding a kitten.” I take the picture and send it. “Look at your messages.”
A pause and then, “Oh, Matteo. She looks exactly like Nonna’s cat. The one from the photograph.”
“I know, Ma.”
“That’s a sign.”
“I know it’s a sign.”
“Your nonna is going to cry. MAMA! MATTEO GOT A KITTEN!” A noise in the background. A cabinet, or Nonna’s elbow.
“Six minutes,” Berger announces behind me.
I hang up after Ma tells me twice more to call Nonna. The kitten is warm against my chest. I take three pictures, three angles, and she doesn’t look at the camera for any of them.
Mäkinen goes second. Points at the gray one. Picks it up. It sits on his shoulder like it was built for the purpose.
“I will call him Jari,” Mäkinen says.
“Eleven seconds,” Berger says. “Mäkinen has set the standard and Marchetti should be embarrassed.”
Berger goes third. He picks up the one that’s been yelling at its siblings from the corner.
“Perfect match,” Thompson says from the wall. His jaw is set but his voice is the dry deadpan it always is.
Brooks is in the corridor just past the doorway. Clipboard in hand. Tyler beside him. He’s watching the room the way he watches everything at work, present and professional and separate. His eyes move across the room and catch on me and the kitten against my chest. Our eyes hold for a second longer than he would with another player. Then he looks away. The looking away is careful. Practiced.
But this time what lands with it is the specific ache of not being able to cross the room. I want to hold up this kitten and say look what I got, the way I’d say it to anyone who mattered.
He’s wearing the team-issued navy polo. I can’t tell from here if the pen in his breast pocket is the good one or the facility one with the crooked logo. I gave him the pens weeks ago. I don’t know if the box is in a drawer or on a table or in the trash, and I don’t know how to find out without asking.
I look away from the corridor. The kitten hooks one paw into my collar.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Get comfortable.”
Fontenot is last. He’s at the gate with his arms crossed, staring at the remaining kitten asleep in the blankets. He didn’t evenknow he was in the ranking until Berger posted the final results. He drops his arms. Picks her up with both hands. Holds her against his chest with a grip that says anyone who tries to take her will lose fingers.
“Nonna says only wet food,” I tell him. “Pâté.”
