“Should I pass along his number? He seemed nice. Tall. Good jawline.”
“I think that is very flattering, but no. Thank you.”
“Your loss. I’m telling you, this is prime real estate for meeting people.”
“I appreciate the real estate report.”
Jordan shrugs, and I take the cup to the window seat that nobody else picks because everyone else wants the table near the outlet. Jordan means well. The city lets me be visible in ways Brno never did. I am gay in Atlanta, the way I am Czech in Atlanta, the way I am left-handed in Atlanta. It is just a fact about me that lives in the open quietly and nobody treats it like news. Drew from the foodie group set me up with his friend in March. A graphic designer, kind eyes, good questions. We got through appetizers before I realized I was comparing his laugh to a laugh I haven’t heard for three years, which was not fair to anyone. I paid for dinner and walked home and have not tried again.
After I leave Jordan’s coffee shop, I head to the rink which smells like ice even in June. The guys who stayed in Atlanta for the summer, showing up to skate and lift and then stand around in the locker room talking about whatever people talk about when there is no game every three days. Davis is lacing up on the bench beside me.
“You saw the dog this morning.”
“How do you know?”
“Golden hair on your collar.” He doesn’t look up from his laces. “And you’re smiling like a person who has been outside already this morning.”
“I smile inside too.”
“Not like that, you don’t.” He glances over at me. "You look tired. How are you sleeping?”
“Fine.”
“Fine like fine, or fine like you read until two again?”
“I finished chapter fourteen last night. The chapter was very good. I could not stop.”
“You never can.” He laughs.
On the ice the pace is light. Summer pace, summer bodies, nobody pushing because there is nothing to push toward for a few more months. I run my edges and work positioning drills and the puck comes off the boards and I read the lane before it opens. The gap closes under my stick and for a few minutes the only thing I am thinking about is the game, the ice, the puck.
In the hallway after, Marchetti catches me at the water cooler.
“Hájek.” Both hands on my shoulders. “Tell me you started the new one.”
“I started it last night.”
“And? The hero. Is he worth fourteen chapters? Because in chapter two he left her standing in the rain. In the rain, Hájek. I need to know before I invest.”
“I think you should keep reading.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer that does not violate the spoiler policy.”
“Thompson has a spoiler policy. I have a need-to-know policy and my need to know is very high right now.”
“Your need to know is always very high. I think this is why you read so fast.”
“I read fast because I care, Hájek. I care about these fictional people.”
“So do I. That is why I will not ruin the experience for you. Keep reading.”
He stares at me. I stare back. Every time, underneath the loud warmth, Marchetti chooses that a story deserves its ending. He exhales, taps my shoulders twice, walks away.
“You are the most infuriating person on this team,” he calls back over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Marchetti. That is very generous.”
