“Most of the time.”
He nodded slowly, processing that. “So you know the roster.”
“Better than they know themselves.”
“You know I’m one of the new guys.”
“It was hard to miss.”
He grunted. “And you came over here anyway.”
“You looked like you wanted to be left alone.”
“I did.”
“Should I go?”
“No.”
I sipped my wine. He watched the room. Near the front, my father laughed at something one of the assistant coaches said, and the sound carried over the noise the way his voice always did.
“How long have you been doing this?” Tolrek asked.
“Three years with this team. Two before that with a different organization.”
“You like it.”
“Most of the time.”
“Which part don’t you like?”
People always asked me if the hours were hard, if I missed having weekends free, or whether it was difficult being a woman in a male-dominated space. Surface things. Tolrek’s question cut past that.
“The part where I see something that matters and nobody listens,” I said.
He looked at me again, giving me the kind of attention that made me feel like I’d said something worth hearing.
“That happens,” he said.
“More than it should.”
“You tell them anyway?”
“Every time.”
“Good.”
The approval in his voice was so quiet I almost missed it. But I didn’t. I never missed things like that.
Across the room, Mikael’s laugh sounded like a car backfiring. Chairs scraped. Someone shouted, and half the table dissolved into laughter.
“You said you’ve seen me play,” Tolrek said.
It took me a second to catch up. “What?”
“You know the roster better than they know themselves. You’ve seen me play.”
“Oh. Yes.”
