"I'll be here."
She climbs out, hoists her bag, and walks toward the entrance. Two other women in scrubs are converging from different directions—one of them Indian with a low ponytail, the other one white with a high ponytail. They spot Ella, and there's a chorus of greetings, a group hug right there on the sidewalk, the three of them laughing about something as they push through the doors together.
I sit in the drop-off lane, watch the doors close behind them, and feel something ease. She has friends. She's building something here that has nothing to do with Jason, hockey, or me.
I should connect her with Cam, Essence, and some of the other partners and wives. That's the kind of thing Jason should have thought of—introducing his sister to the people who could make Pittsburgh feel like home. But Jason didn't think of it, because Jason doesn't think about Ella. It sucks to realize this, but my best friend and roommate thinks about Ella the way you think about furniture you've had so long you don't notice it anymore.
I drive to practice with the passenger seat still warm.
I'm first on the ice, which never happens. I skate laps until my lungs burn and my hip screams at me, and I'm still going when the guys start filtering in.
Spinner hops the boards and glides up beside me, matching my pace. "You look like hammered shit, Howie."
"Didn't sleep great."
"The couch thing? Dude, just tell Rookie's sister to get a hotel."
"She's fine. I'm fine. The couch is fine."
"You just said fine three times, which means everything is shit.” Spinner bumps my shoulder with his. "Let's get meatballs later. Gianna's got a new sauce."
I’m about to tease Spinner about Gianna when Mayhem materializes, six-foot-five and silent, smelling like a hockey sock. He says nothing. He just skates alongside me for a few strides, looks at my face, and says, "You good?"
"Yeah, man. I'm good."
He holds my gaze for half a second longer than comfortable, nods once, and skates away. That's Mayhem. He doesn't need you to talk. He just needs you to know he noticed.
Coach blows the whistle, and we run drills. Rookie shows up exactly on time, already jawing with Cappy about some play from the last game. He doesn't talk about Ella. He doesn't ask if she got to work okay. He doesn't ask if she ate, slept, or is adjusting to the city.
He asks me to pass the tape.
I bite my tongue so hard I taste metal. There's a version of me that grabs Rookie by the collar right now and says your sister saved a kid's life yesterday and took a bus home in the dark and you didn't even get her a game ticket, you absolute walnut. But that conversation is coming. Not yet. Not here.
We scrimmage. I play like garbage—too distracted, always a half-step behind. Coach gives me a look. I give him nothing back.
I'm in the Mercy parking lot at 7:21 p.m. with the seat warmer on and my head against the headrest. I almost fall asleep, but then I see Ella pushing through the doors, shoulders tight with exhaustion, and I sit up and unlock the car.
She slides in. "You actually came back."
"I said I would."
That sound again—the small sigh as the heated seat hits her back. I am going to hear that sigh in my dreams.
We drive for a few blocks before she says, "So."
"So."
"Have you thought about it?"
I have thought about nothing else for the past eighteen hours, but sure, let's be casual. I turn onto the bridge and choose my words, which is not typically something I bother to do.
"I'm not doing it as a favor," I say.
I feel her stiffen in the seat beside me. "Okay?—"
"Hang on. Let me finish." I check my mirror, merge, and buy myself a few seconds. "You asked me like you're checking something off a list. And I get why—you're practical, you've got a million things going on, you want to handle this efficiently.”
"What's wrong with efficiency?"
