"You literally just said something."
I give him a look and turn back to the front of the room.
Staff introductions go one by one. Strength coach. Equipment manager. Video coordinator. Everyone clapped, kind of like hockey players do when it’s not a goal. Three hits and a nod.
Gary Miller stands first. Head athletic trainer. Standard intro.
Then the guy next to him stands. Isaiah Brooks, assistant athletic trainer. He covers the basics and sits back down.
The coach wraps up. Players stand. Chairs scrape. I pick up my water bottle and head for the hallway with Marchetti on one side and Thompson on the other.
"So we need to talk about the coffee," I say, because I have been waiting for this meeting to end so I could begin my real agenda.
"The coffee is fine," Thompson says.
"The coffee is not fine, Thompson. The coffee is an institutional failure. I've had gas station coffee with better roasting notes."
"It's free coffee in a hockey facility. It doesn't need notes."
"Coffee always needs notes. That is a non-negotiable position."
"He's right," Marchetti says. "I found a pour-over place on Piedmont. Barista named Tasha. She does this thing with the water temperature. I've been here five days and it's the best thing that's happened to me in Atlanta."
"You guys need better priorities," Thompson says.
"I need this pour-over place," I say. "I need the address. I need it today."
"I'll send it to the chat."
"Send it to me directly. I don't trust the chat with something this important."
Practice is sharp for a first day. The ice is clean, the surface tight. I skate my routes and take my reps. The release point is where it should be. Ikonen runs the defensive zone with a calm that lifts everyone around him. Asher calls from the blue line, short corrections, precise. They read each other already. Hájek's edges are solid. His hands are quick. The rest of him is catching up.
After practice, a group of us walk to a barbecue place off Ponce that Kowalski found on his phone. Checkered tablecloths. A smoker visible through the kitchen pass. The server calls everyone "hon."
I hold up one finger.
"The brisket. Seven-point-six. Bark is eight-point-zero, smoke ring seven-three. But the sauce is sweet, which is a regional choice I'm tolerating but not endorsing."
"He's tolerating the sauce," Thompson says to Mäkinen.
"The sauce is a six-two. Good sauce disappears into the meat. This sauce introduces itself, pulls up a chair, and tells you about its weekend. Condiments shouldn’t offer that.”
Kowalski asks about Miami. "What's it like down there? The team, the city?"
"Hot. Different hot, though. Miami heat comes off the water. It's personal. Atlanta heat just shows up and sits on your head." I take another bite of the brisket, swallowing hard to get it down. "The Tempest facility is older. Smaller weight room but better machines. The ice had a dead patch near the left circle the maintenance crew never fixed. I complained about it for two seasons and they named it after me."
"They named a dead patch after you?" Jensen asks.
"The Berger Zone. Unofficial. But the Zamboni driver acknowledged it."
The conversation moves. Davis argues with Jensen about a tv show neither of them has finished. Mäkinen eats in focused silence. Kowalski tells a story about his dog that outlives its natural endpoint by two full minutes. Not together. Just near each other.
The apartment is quiet when I get home. I put my keys on the counter. The kitchen light hums. The couch, the lamp, the box of books by the window. The walls are the same white they were twelve hours ago.
I shower. I brush my teeth. I sit on the edge of the bed and I pick up my phone from the nightstand. The balcony glows on the screen. Blue water, white railing, green palm trees below. The view from the place I used to live.
I press my thumb to the railing and hold it there.
