Page 19 of Full Contact

Mark: Olives.

Trier: With what?

Mark: Wine.

Trier: That’s not dinner. That’s a garnish.

Mark: What are you having?

Trier: Lo mein, dumplings, and something with broccoli in it.

Mark: On a plate?

Trier: The containers are designed for this.

Mark: I’m not taking nutritional advice from a man eating standing up out of three boxes.

Trier: Two boxes. The dumplings are already gone.

Mark: I withdraw the question. You clearly have a system.

I laughed aloud in the empty kitchen. Peaches stopped washing to look at me. I took another bite of lo mein, still smiling.

By the time I’d put the leftovers away, we had covered the wine, which a friend had given him for a good occasion. I declined to ask what occasion today was.

Trier: Eat something real. You have a series to run.

Mark: There’s cheese. The label says it’s made from real milk.

Peaches stepped down from my chair, unhurried, and made her way to the couch. She arranged herself against the arm with her tail wrapped to her nose and watched me reclaim my seat.

The chair was warm.

Peaches looked positively regal against the dark cushion, orange on gray, one ear turned toward the kitchen in case anything happened there. I took a picture.

I sent it to Mark. He wasn’t on the distribution list. This was a message just for him.

***

Six weeks later, the parking lot at the Ironhawks’ practice facility was full, somebody had taken the stall I preferred, and the locker room smelled the way it always did in September—fresh tape, new rubber, and equipment that had never entirely dried since June.

I barely noticed August as it slipped away. I visited Springfield, Missouri, where my nephew, Josh, beat me at a video game, all the while explaining what I’d done wrong.

I had text conversations with Mark every other day. They generally began with a legitimate question about filming and occasionally stayed on subject.

Preseason camp was familiar work. New faces appeared, my returning teammates compared their summers, and the younger players tried to look as though they weren’t watching everybody. One of them, Callahan, had equipment so new it still had the fold marks. He was sitting very straight and touching nothing.

“Are you planning to wear that,” I asked, “or keep it in mint condition?”

He looked up. “Sir?”

“Your gloves look lonely.”

“They’re—the palms are stiff.” He picked one up. “The pair I had in Rockford were broken in perfectly. Everyone says these are better. Better doesn’t matter if I can’t feel the stick.”

“Tell Danny that.”

“Danny?”