I look back at Russo.
He’s still grinning. Still close. Still looking at me like the game is somehow mine as much as his, like I’m part of this, like I belong in the celebration.
And maybe I do.
“One drink.”
The grin gets bigger.
“One drink,” he agrees, in a tone that means even he doesn’t believe what he’s saying.
MATEO
Tierney’s is loud and smells like spilled beer. I’ve never been happier to be in it.
The team takes up half the bar without trying - we’re not quiet people at the best of times and tonight is the first time in weeks we’ve felt like ourselves again. Like last season, almost. Like the version of this team I’ve been trying to get back to since October.
By the second round someone has started an argument about the Wolves’ third defenceman that has nothing to do with anything, but somehow winning makes everyone loud and opinionated.
I love these guys.
I’m standing at the edge of it all with my beer when I see her walk in.
She’s with Tara. She’s laughing at something Tara has said - properly laughing, totally unguarded.
She’s still in her dark jacket, hair pulled back the way it always is for sessions, no effort made toward the fact that she’s walked out of a rink and into a bar. It doesn’t matter. That’s the annoying thing. She could be in anything and it wouldn’t matter. There’s something about the way she carries herself that does the work regardless. I guess being a professional figure skater doesn’t hurt with that. They find seats at the end of the long table.
Calloway arrives around nine, coat still on, stays for exactly one drink the way he always does, and makes the rounds, connecting with players in the way that makes him good at thisjob. He stops beside me at one point and we talk about the game for a few minutes.
Then he says, casually, “she’s good for this team.”
I keep my eyes on the middle distance. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Good for you in particular.”
“Coach.”
He finishes his drink. “Just an observation.” He sets the glass down and buttons his coat. “Good win tonight, Russo.”
Then he’s gone and the bar is loud and she’s across the room laughing at something else now and I am being completely normal about all of this.
Completely normal.
The crowd shifts around eleven - a few of the freshmen leaving for another party, the booth reshuffling. Tara gets pulled into a conversation with Ward and then the space rearranges itself and she’s nearby.
I move through the crowd toward the bar for another drink and she’s moving in the same direction. We arrive at roughly the same moment and stand next to each other waiting.
“Good win,” she says.
“Yeah. It was.”
She’s looking at the bar, not at me, fingers around her glass. “That sequence you ran in the corner in the first…”
“I know. I felt it.”
She nods, and I can see the satisfaction in it - that small contained professional pleasure.
“I might get some air,” I say, which is not what I planned to say.
