Page 70 of Breakaway
"I fed the cat."
He stops unpacking. His hands go still on his shin guards. "Did you and the cat both eat? Or just the cat?."
"The cat ate. I was in the room. Close enough."
"That's not close enough." He opens his bag and pulls out a protein bar. “You need this now. I'm bringing you something from Piedmont after skate. Don't argue."
"I'm not arguing."
"Good. Because I wasn't asking. Pastry or sandwich?"
"I don't care."
He picks up a shin guard and goes back to unpacking. He lets a few beats pass before he starts again.
"Thompson called me last night," he says. "After you left."
"Yeah, I figured."
"He's worried. I'm worried too."
"I know."
"You don't have to tell me anything. I just want you to know I'm here."
"I know you're here."
"Okay."
"Okay."
He goes back to unpacking. I finish lacing. The phone is on the shelf, face down. The last message is Wes's. I don't know from when. I have stopped counting.
Morning skate runs clean. My legs work. My stick finds the puck. Hájek runs a drill on the left side with edges that get sharper every week. I put a pass on Fontenot's tape from the far circle because the lane is open and my hands know where the lane is.
"Good feed," Fontenot says on the way off the ice.
"The lane was open."
"It was a good feed, Berger. Take the compliment."
"The lane was open. You finished it. That's the whole transaction."
"When did you stop taking compliments?"
"I take compliments. I just don't take credit for geometry."
He looks at me the way people look at me now, the half-second longer than necessary, the scan they think I don't see. He nods and moves on.
Hájek is at his stall afterward, methodical, hanging each piece in sequence. He catches my eye as I pass.
"Good skate today," he says.
"Thanks, Hájek."
"Your pass to Fontenot. The timing was very precise."
"Yeah. The lane opened up."
