Page 3 of Before the Fire
"Avi." She pauses. "You handled that well."
I nod. She means it as a compliment. I hear it as confirmation that I have, once again, performed control so convincingly that even the person paid to know me can't see past it.
The locker room is empty, which is the point. Late June means the building is a ghost. Skeleton crew, lights at half, the particular hum of a hockey facility in summer when the ice is still maintained but nobody's using it. My locker is the same one I'vehad for seven years. Third from the end, left wall. The nameplate is still up. IKONEN. Block letters, the same font they've used since I got here.
I brought one bag. It takes less than ten minutes. Tape, a pair of gloves I like, an extra mouthguard. Deodorant. A photo I'd stuck to the inside wall years ago. My grandmother's house in Finland, taken the summer I was sixteen. The edges are curled from humidity, the tape residue leaving a mark on the metal. I peel it off and put it in the bag.
That's it. Seven years and it fits in a single duffel.
I'm zipping it closed when I hear footsteps in the corridor. The rhythm is familiar before the person is. Four years of hearing someone walk toward you on concrete floors, the specific weight and pace of a man who is six-one and chronically unhurried.
Sean Brennan comes around the corner in workout clothes, a towel over his shoulder, and stops when he sees me.
"Hey." He stands in the doorway. Not surprised, because he knew I'd come for my things. More that he was prepared for a moment, and then the moment arrived and the preparation meant nothing.
"Hey."
He walks in. Sits on the bench across from me. The distance between us is the same distance it's always been. Two lockers apart, close enough to talk without raising a voice. Four years of pre-game silence and post-game assessments and the particular nonverbal language of two defensemen who've learned each other's timing so well that words become redundant.
"This is bullshit," he says. Not loud. Just factual.
"Yeah."
"You know that, right? Everyone knows. The guys are. We're all..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I just want to make sure you know it's bullshit."
"I know."
He nods. Looks at his hands. Looks at my bag. I can see him calculating the weight of it, the way I would. One bag. Seven years. The math doesn't work, and we both know it.
"Listen, before you go. Dinner. You and me, before you head out." He says it like it's simple, like two people eating a meal together is an uncomplicated thing. "Claire's been asking about you. She makes that salmon you like."
Claire. His wife. The salmon with dill. The dinner where I sit at their table and their kids run through the room and I watch the connection that is easy between them. A handful of dinners every year, and each time feels like I’m glimpsing the life I can’t have.
"Maybe," I say. "Things are moving fast with the transition."
He hears the deflection. I can tell because his jaw shifts, just slightly, the same micro-movement he makes on the ice when a play breaks down and he's resetting. He doesn't push.
Instead he stands. Crosses the two lockers between us. And pulls me in.
His arms come around my shoulders. Firm. Warm. I stand inside it with my arms at my sides and my bag in one hand, and I don't know what to do. My body doesn't know what to do. The last person who held me like this, without asking, without feeling like I had to hide myself. I can't remember who that was.
One hand comes up. Late. Lands on his back for two seconds before dropping.
He steps away and wipes at his eyes, clears his throat. "Atlanta's lucky," he says. "They don't know it yet, but they are."
I nod, as if I agree, and pick up the bag. "Take care of yourself, Brennan."
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "You too, Avi."
The drive home takes eleven minutes. I go past the arena because the route requires it, and I keep my eyes on the road.The building is on my right. Massive, familiar, the parking lot where I've parked a thousand times. I don't look.
I look.
It's just a building. Glass and concrete and a logo I've worn on my chest for seven years. It doesn't look back.
At the condo, I pull out a moving box and a roll of tape. I assemble the box. I take one book off the shelf, a collection of Finnish poetry my grandmother gave me, and place it inside. The box is enormous around the single book, all that empty cardboard holding almost nothing. Outside, the city keeps going. I stay where I am.
Chapter 3: Avi
