Page 4 of Blind Side
I understood that about him—the same way I understood that he drank his coffee black but would accept cream if someone else was making it. His silence wasn't absence, but attention. I had a whole library of Abbott-specific knowledge that I'd accumulated. It was like accumulating furniture in a house you've lived in for a long time—not all at once, not on purpose, just piece by pieceuntil one day you looked around and realized your space had been shaped by someone who'd been there all along.
Across the room, Luca was talking to one of the rookie defensemen. Even in a casual setting, Luca carried the weight of a captain who'd come out on national television, won a Cup, and married the love of his life, all within a year.
It was the way Theo orbited him that I noticed, not hovering or dependent, but simply aware. Theo could be on the far side of a room and if Luca shifted, Theo shifted. It wasn't conscious. It was just what happened when you belonged to someone completely enough that their presence recalibrated your spatial awareness. I watched that for a moment.
Then I stopped myself.
The dinner wound down around ten. I made sure every rookie had at least one veteran's phone number, confirmed the next morning's skate time, and walked out into the Chicago night feeling the satisfaction of a room well-managed.
My phone buzzed as I reached my car.
Abbott: How'd rookie night go?
Me: Good. Mikkola connected with Nico. I think the Finnish thing will help.
Abbott: You matched them deliberately.
Me: Obviously.
Abbott: Social engineering.
Me: I prefer "being nice."
Abbott: You would.
I was smiling at my phone in a parking lot.
It was fine.
That was just how it was. Abbott's brand of humor, landing with quiet confidence because he knew exactly how funny he was, always got me. I'd laughed too loud at an Abbott comment once in the locker room and Bishop had given me a look.
It wasn't a thing. Abbott was funny. I appreciated funny people.
Abbott: Want a ride tomorrow? I'm passing your building anyway.
He was not, in fact, passing my building. His apartment was in the opposite direction. He'd been offering rides for two years and the "passing your building" claim had never been challenged by either of us.
Me: Sure. 7?
Abbott: 7.
I drove home and showered. I stood in the kitchen for a minute in the stillness that only came when I was alone and didn't have to be anything for anyone.
My apartment was warm and a little cluttered. It was lived-in the way I liked it. There were books on the coffee table and a blanket thrown over the couch from last weekend's movie night with Theo and Luca. The dishes were still in the drying rack.
The blue mug with the chipped handle was in its usual spot on the shelf. Abbott's mug. I'd washed it two days ago even though he hadn't been over in a week. I always washed it. I always put it back in the same spot, angled so the handle faced out, because Abbott picked things up with his right hand and it was easier for him if the handle was already oriented correctly.
Abbott picked me up at seven.
His car was clean. There were two cups of coffee in the center console. He handed me the one with cream and sugar without being asked.
"Thanks."
He pulled into traffic. The lake threw grey light across the skyline, the flat overcast of a September morning. We drove in comfortable silence.
In Abbott's car, I didn't need to fill the quiet. I sat with the coffee he'd made me and let myself relax.
There was no pretense with him. The heater hummed. The leather seat was warm from whatever Abbott did to pre-heat his car. He thought of things like that. Traffic on Lake Shore Drive was thick and slow, but neither of us cared.
