"Yeah." My voice cracked. "He's having a day."
I changed in the locker room after practice. There was the usual noise and routine around me. Theo was telling a story about Luca trying to assemble IKEA furniture, and most of the room was laughing. Morrison was quiet at his stall. I'd noticed his posture change over the past few months—the way he occupied less space than he used to.
Kieran was doing his post-practice stretches with ritualistic focus. The other guys gave him space. Nico sat near him—not touching, not talking, just a comfortable presence in his orbit. I looked at them for a second too long and felt something tighten in my throat.
Abbott was three stalls down. He'd stripped his pads and was pulling on a grey t-shirt. He caught me watching him.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing. Good practice."
"You already said that."
Had I? Maybe I had on the ice, one of those moments between drills when you talk without really registering the conversation.
"Well," I said, "it bears repeating."
The corner of his mouth moved in an almost smile. He pulled his bag from his stall and walked toward the tunnel without looking back. Bishop, supposedly focused on his own gear, watched me watch him go.
I looked away and finished dressing.
I walked out to the parking lot, alone for once, because Abbott had a separate appointment. I missed his shoulder beside mine.
I drove home and made dinner for one. I left Abbott's mug on the shelf where it always sat, handle facing out. I didn't want to think about Luca's question, or Bishop's silence, or the sound I'd made when Abbott caught that glove save. I didn't want to think about any of it.
5
Abbott
The road trip announcement came on Tuesday. Five games, three cities, ten days. Coach Reeves posted the schedule in the locker room. The team responded the way it always responded to long road trips—groans from the guys with families, grins from the guys who liked hotel room service, and one long theatrical sigh from Volkov that was mostly for show.
I read the schedule. City one, two games. City two, one game with a day off. City three, two games. Ten days of buses and hotels with nowhere to hide from each other.
Nowhere to hide from Jamie.
I sat with that thought.
Marty called during lunch. I took it in the hallway outside the cafeteria, leaning against the wall and watching facility staff push a cart of laundry toward the equipment room.
"Denver's getting impatient," he said. "Their backup situation is not working. They need an answer before the deadline. They'dideally like to start the conversation with Chicago's front office sooner rather than later."
"How soon is sooner?"
"Before you leave on that road trip would be ideal."
"That's four days."
"I know. I'm not asking you to decide in four days. I'm asking you to let me have a preliminary conversation with Park. It won't be binding. It just opens the door."
Just opening a door. I stood in the hallway and thought about doors—the ones you opened, the ones you kept closed, the ones you'd decided weren't yours to walk through.
"Give me the road trip," I said. "Tell Denver I'm interested enough to keep talking but I need two weeks."
Marty was quiet for a moment. He was a good agent. He understood that silence sometimes meant more than words. "Two weeks. I'll tell them."
"Thank you."
"Clay." He paused. "This is a real opportunity. Starter money. A contender. I want to make sure you're giving it the consideration it deserves."
