Page 84 of Breakaway
"He just looked tired. And not middle of the season tired, but life wearing him down tired." I take another bite of the rice and beans. “Like he was there with me, but not really present. Then, Itried calling a few times after his teammate called and he wasn’t answering and I didn’t know what to do.”
"So you left the team and flew to Atlanta." He picks up a maduro with his fork and examines it. "Is he okay?"
"He's working on it. He's seeing someone. A therapist."
"That’s good."
"Yeah. I just…”
“What?"
"It’s been difficult seeing him like this. He was thinner and quieter in Aruba and I didn’t question it. Or at least not enough. I got to his place and it was a mess. He’d been keeping up with the kitten but that was about it."
I take a few more bites and then say what I am really thinking. "I feel guilty, Kevin. I know him better than anyone and I didn’t press. I didn’t ask enough questions. Maybe if I had, I could have stopped it from getting so bad."
"Maybe, but maybe not. You can’t think like that. Think about what you did do. You left the team, you went to him as soon as you figured out how serious it was." He says it with the particular Kevin way that means he’s looking at the whole picture. "How was it when you left?"
"Better. Not good or fixed. But better."
He nods his head and eats. The Cuban food is good. The pork’s better than usual, and the maduros are perfect. I’m eating but not really tasting it. I’m still feeling the weight of the last four days.
"You missed the game," Kevin says. "I'm not saying it as a criticism. I'm saying it as a fact. In fifteen years of professional hockey, Wesley Mercer has never missed a game, and then he missed one. And the reason he missed it was a kid in Atlanta who needed him."
"He's not a kid."
"No. He's your person. That's what I'm saying." Kevin sets his fork down. The fork on the plate is Kevin about to drop a truth bomb. The fork up is conversation. The fork down is something else. "What did it feel like?"
"What do you mean?"
"Being off the ice. Four days, no practice, no game, no schedule. Just you in an apartment doing being there for someone. What did it feel like?"
I look at the table. The fork on my plate. The container of black beans between us.
"It felt like the right place to be," I say.
Kevin nods. He does not pick up his fork.
"Can I ask you something else?" he says.
"You're going to ask me regardless."
"I am. But I wanted to be polite about it." He folds his hands on the table. The lawyer posture, except it is not the lawyer. It is the man who has been sitting at my table for years and has never once asked a question he did not already know the answer to. "What does next season look like for you?"
"I have a contract. Next season looks like playing."
"That's what next season looks like on paper. I'm asking what it looks like in your head."
"It looks like playing, Kevin."
"Okay." He picks up the fork. The register shifts back to conversation mode.
We clear the plates and he helps clean up. When he goes to leave, he turns. His hand is on the frame.
"You know what I noticed tonight?" he says.
"What?"
"You didn't check your phone once. The whole meal. Not once." He looks at me. "I've been eating dinner with you for seven years. You always check your phone. Scores, schedule, team texts. Tonight you didn't touch it."
