Page 53 of Payback On The Ice

"That's the most you've had."

"I know."

He comes in and picks up the pucks and drops them in the bucket, and goes and sits on the bench, and takes his helmet off. His face is calm. Too calm.

It bothers me all day.

I can't figure out why. He's one away. One. One more morning like this and he's done with me. He's just a guy on the team. That's what he's wanted since September. He should be over the moon.

And he looked at the ice like somebody had died.

That night, I go looking for him.

He's not in his room. He's not in the house. It's eleven, and his boots are gone from the hall, and his hoodie's gone from the hook.

I know where he is. I've known since the night in the kitchen. The name tag. The fryer smell. The walk home from the highway.

I didn't want to know. If I knew, I'd have to do something about it.

I get in my car.

The Kwik Stop on Route 9 is a gas station with four pumps, a car wash that's been broken since I was a freshman, and fluorescent lights so bright they hurt. Inside, it smells like burnt coffee and hot dogs that have been rolling since noon.

He's behind the counter.

He's wearing a red vest and the name tag, THEO, in a font that looks like it belongs on a birthday cake. He's ringing up a guy in a Carhartt jacket buying chew and two scratch tickets. He's smiling. Not his room smile. A different one, tired and polite.

He looks up when the door chimes, and the smile disappears.

The guy in the Carhartt pays and leaves. The door chimes again behind him. It's just us, and the hum of the coolers, and an old man in the back stocking a shelf of motor oil.

"What are you doing here," Theo says. Very quietly.

"Getting gas."

"You didn't get gas. You parked by the air pump."

I go to the cooler and get a bottle of water, because I don't know what else to do with my hands, and bring it to the counter. He rings it up. He doesn't look at me.

"Two-nineteen."

I give him a five. He gives me change. Our fingers don't touch.

"How long," I say.

"Since September."

"How many nights."

"Four. Sometimes five."

"After practice?"

"After practice." He shrugs. "Before six. It's fine. I don't sleep much anyway."

"With your ribs. You were working with your ribs."

He doesn't answer.