“Who?” A forward named Mercy isn’t ringing a bell.
“Wesley Mercer. People call him Mercy. Ask Berger about him. I think they were roommates or something.”
The name hits my ear before my brain catches up to it.
Mercer.Mercy.
The elevator. Berger’s weight against my shoulder. His hand gripping my jacket. Asking for mercy.
Not a word. A name.
Mercy.
***
Zay comes over my apartment after the game. Parker asleep on the armrest, his hand on my knee while I sit on the couch and try to explain what my brain did hours ago.
"Mercer. There’s a guy on Miami’s team," I tell him. "His name is Mercer. But people call him Mercy."
Zay looks at me, eyes wide. "Mercy," he says softly, processing.
"Berger lived with him in Miami. I don't know the details but sounds like they were close. And in that elevator, I think that's what he was asking for. Not mercy, like, have mercy. Mercer. Like a person."
“Did you say anything to Berger?”
I shake my head. "Not to Berger. But I called Mercer."
"You already called him?" Zay’s hand rubs my knee, as if supporting me physically will help too.
"Got his number and called him after the game. Told him Berger might be going through something. He said he appreciated it and that he'd reach out. That was it. No questions, no comment. Nothing."
"Wow. That’s a lot.” Zay exhales through his nose. He looks up at the ceiling for a minute before looking back at me. “I don’t think you’re wrong. I was there. That wasn't a drunk guy saying random words."
"So what do I do now?"
"You already did it." His voice is soft. He squeezes my knee and leans towards me. "You called. What he does with it is up to him."
Parker's tail twitches once in her sleep and I reach over and pet her. Even in her sleep, the purring starts immediately.
"He didn't even ask what was wrong," I say.
"Maybe he didn’t know what to say to you. Doesn't mean he wasn’t listening."
"Maybe he already knows."
He looks at me. "Yeah. Maybe."
I lean into his side and he lets me, his arm adjusting, his body making room for mine the way it does now without either of us thinking about it. Muscle memory for the other person.
"I think it’s good you called Mercer," Zay says. "Since Berger won’t tell you what’s going on."
"He's my friend. I think he’d do the same for me."
"Maybe. Not everyone would."
"So?"
Zay's quiet. His fingers press into my knee again, then ease. "You just do that. Walk with both hands out trying to figure out how to help."
