Page 142 of Full Contact

I decided to tell Trier. There was no reason to avoid it while it was still only an invitation to talk. It was better for him to know earlier than later.

We already had dinner planned for that night at his place. I’d been planning to leave at six thirty. Then work interfered.

I texted him.

Mark: Running late. Partnerships, then a call. Eight?

Trier: Treatment ran long. They want me back for ice on the hip. Make it nine.

By the time I shut down my computer at a quarter till nine, the office suite outside my door was mostly dark. The cleaning crew had propped the stairwell door open with a wastebasket, and somewhere down the hall a radio was playing a spring-training baseball game from Arizona, the crowd noise thin and far away.

We finally began dinner at nine forty. Trier had come home only twenty minutes before me, and he’d showered and changed into sweatpants and the Michigan T-shirt. He opened the door with a dish towel over his shoulder. He kissed me hello with one hand on the doorknob and the other already reaching to take my bag.

Anna’s turkey chili was heating in a pot on the stove. It had black beans, a lot of cumin, and a tub of Greek yogurt beside it in place of sour cream. She insisted that made it all healthy. A bag of salad sat open on the counter beside two bowls.

“I’ll get the glasses,” I said.

“Water’s in the fridge.”

I carried the glasses and the pitcher to the table while Trier divided the chili and the salad. Peaches had eaten hours ago. She was asleep in the window bed and didn’t lift her head when I came in.

Trier carried the bowls over and sat. As he lowered himself into the chair, he stretched his left leg out under the table slowly, the way he did when he didn’t want to make a point of it.

“Does something hurt?” I asked.

“Several things,” he said. “But nothing interesting. It’s the usual late-season cluster.”

“The hip?”

“The hip, a shin, and something in my shoulder. The trainer’s actually pleased. She says it’s not bad for this point in the season.”

We ate for a few minutes without talking. The chili had enough heat to make my eyes water, and the yogurt took the edge off. I was hungrier than I’d realized. I’d eaten half a sleeve of crackers at my desk around seven and nothing since.

I set my spoon down.

“I got an email today,” I said. “From the league office.”

Trier looked up.

“It was from Graham Whitfield. I’ve worked with him for years.”

“What did he have to say? Are they bothered by Peaches?”

“Nothing about Peaches. They’re restructuring their communications department, and they want someone to run it. It’s a senior vice president position reporting to the deputy commissioner. It covers league-wide strategy, crisis communications for every club, the media partnerships, and the Final.” I heard myself picking up speed as I talked.

Trier put his spoon down.

“It’s in New York,” I said. “They asked whether I’d be open to a conversation. That’s all it is right now. There’s no offer. I haven’t decided anything, and I haven’t answered him yet.”

“That’s big,” Trier said.

“It isn’t yet,” I said.

“But you want to talk to them.”

“Yes, the work interests me.”

Trier nodded and was quiet.