Page 74 of The Lies We Play

“Good luck, Lafontaine,” he says as I get out.

I look back.

He grins. “With retirement. Or not retirement. Or whatever tragic hockey monk thing you’ve got going on.”

This time, the laugh escapes. Barely.

“Night, Manny.”

The doorman greets me by name. I nod, because that’s the version of warmth I am willing to offer after midnight. The elevator takes too long. It always does after games, when my body finally admits everything hurts. My shoulder. My hip. The old rib. My jaw, where someone’s elbow caught me in the second period.

I stand in the mirrored box and look at the man staring back. His hair is damp, his mouth cut, his suit too expensive for someone who looks this tired. His eyes are dim, like someone forgot to turn a light on behind them. People call me controlled.

They don’t understand control is just panic with better posture.

The doors open.

My apartment waits at the end of the hallway, dark and expensive and silent in the way expensive things are allowed to be silent. No noise from the neighbor. No laughter through walls. No dog barking. No one waiting on the other side of the door, asking why I’m late, why I’m bleeding, why I refuse to admit that every season takes something I don’t get back.

I unlock the door.

Step inside, but don’t turn on the lights. For one full minute, I stand in the dark.

I do this sometimes after games. I tell myself it is because my eyes need the rest after arena lights and cameras. It’s bullshit. I stand in the dark because, for sixty seconds, the apartment is not empty.

It is only unseen.

There’s a difference.

In the dark, I can pretend the couch has Livia curled in the corner with a pencil behind her ear and a sketchbook in her lap, muttering about our future and how betrayal should be color-coded. I can pretend Halston is in the kitchen opening wine; he’ll pretend it didn't cost too much. He won’t drink anyway because he has an early meeting.

He was afraid of drinking. An unfounded fear that comes from a toxic family filled with addicts. His shirt sleeves rolled up, his attention split between us and whatever disaster his family tried to bury that day. I can pretend I'm not coming home to a place that has never once forgiven me for calling it home.

Sixty seconds later, I turn on the lamp.

The apartment becomes what it is.

Clean lines. Dark wood. Art chosen by a consultant. A couch no one has ever slept on by accident. A kitchen with two mugs, even though I only use one. A place built for a man who doesn’t plan on staying anywhere long enough to be known by the walls.

I drop my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door.

The sound cuts through the room—too loud.

I set the coffee on the counter, shrug out of my coat, and loosen my tie. My phone buzzes again. This time, I expect Vesper or Everhart.

Unknown number.

It’s a 203 area code. Not New York. Not a number I recognize at first glance.

I stare at it.

The phone keeps vibrating.

Unknown numbers don’t usually make it to me. Everhart filters most of the nonsense. The team filters the rest. If someone gets through, they either know somebody or they are selling something no sane person should buy after midnight.

The phone goes quiet.

I exhale.