Page 64 of On His Schedule
“You sleeping at night?”
“Yes, Coach.”
He barks, “Sleep more.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The next rep, I read it on time. The one after that, I read it early. We finish the drill.
In the locker room, Stanley has the Bluetooth, and the Drake-Future thing is back. Walsh is telling Carlson and two of the freshmen a story about a dog at his uncle’s farm in Manitoba that has, allegedly, learned to open the fridge. Wexler is laughing the kind of laugh that says he is going to laugh at anything an upperclassman says for the next three years.
I sit at my cubby and start unlacing my left skate.
Blue sits at his cubby two over from mine. He doesn’t say anything for a minute. He’s pulling tape off his shins.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He nods and goes back to the tape.
That’s the whole conversation.
I don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at me. He keeps pulling tape, and I keep unlacing my skate. Across the room, Walsh hits the punchline of the dog story, and Wexler laughs too loudly.
Monday afternoon classes happen. I sit, take notes, and respond to questions if they get to me. Between History and the lecture hall, I check my phone once.
That night, the boys make pasta. Rowan does the cooking. Stanley sets the table and announces twice that he’s not doingthe dishes. I pour the water. Percy reads at the table. I am quieter than I usually am. I go to bed at ten, and I sleep better than last night.
Tuesday, I am at the rink at six-thirty-five. Stanley is on the bench in front of the visitor cubbies. He is in his Under Armour and one shin guard. He’s bent forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor between his skates, doing nothing. He sees me come in, and for once, he doesn’t perform.
“Reeve.”
“Stan.” I sit down on the bench across from him and drop my bag. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He keeps his head down. “My dad called last night.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“He never just calls.”
He’s looking at the rubber matting under his skates. His button-down from yesterday is balled up on the floor next to his bag.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. I am. He just — he doesn’tjust call.So when he just calls.” He pauses, kicking his foot out. “It’s a thing. I don’t know.”
I bend down and start lacing my skate. A minute goes by. Frank is flipping Camdenkers in the back. The Zamboni is going next door. The door at the far end of the room opens. Wexler comes through. Then the freshman backup goalie. Then Walsh.
Stanley sits up. “Gentlemen,” he calls, the volume coming back on like a switch flipped, “Who is ready to be embarrassed by my hands today?”
Walsh laughs, “It’s six forty-two in the morning.”
He widens his arms. “Prime embarrassment hours, boys.” He shoves his foot into the second skate and doesn’t look at me again.
