"That's a big adjustment. Leaving a team and a place you'd been for two years."
"It is." I nod. I hold the nod for the right amount of time. "But I think the key is not to dwell on it. I had a great experience in Miami. I learned a lot. Met some good people. And now I'm here, and a chance to be part of something new. I'm choosing to see it as an opportunity."
"And when you think about what you left behind, what comes up for you?"
The question lands in my chest, in the place where the breath pulls tighter for a second before images run through my head.
The ceviche. The spreadsheet with the column labeled “Return?”. The ocean through the balcony door. Hazel eyes. The way the light hit his dark brown hair at six in the morning when he was still asleep. The sound of his voice on the phone last week saying good night from an apartment I can see when I close my eyes.
"The food, mainly," I say. "Miami has incredible food. Cuban, Peruvian, seafood. I had a running list of restaurants. I'm rebuilding it here, but Atlanta is a different food city. The barbecue is better. The Cuban food is not close."
I think about the place I went to the other day where I ordered the Cubano, ate two bites and couldn’t stomach the rest. The low ambience rating influenced it.
His pen moves across the page.
"Any relationships you miss? Teammates, friends?"
"Sure. I had friends on the Tempest. There's always a bond when you spend two years with a group of guys. But I'm staying in touch with the people who matter and building new ones here. Marchetti and I have become close. Thompson. The whole group, really."
"That's great to hear."
"It's a good group. The guys care about each other. I can feel it already."
He sets the pen down on the folder. He looks at me with an expression that is neither skeptical nor concerned. It is the expression of a professional who has conducted hundreds of these check-ins and is hearing exactly what a well-adjusted, high-functioning young player should sound like six weeks into a new situation.
"Is there anything else you want to talk about? Anything that's been on your mind?"
Through the window, the parking lot is half-full. My car is in the second row. I can see it from here, the dark shape against the gray asphalt. This morning I sat in it for four minutes before coming inside because the walk from the lot to the building felt longer than usual.
"No," I say. "I think I'm good. I'm really happy to be here. The team is great, the city is growing on me. I'm good."
"Well, my door is always open. These check-ins are part of what we do here. You can come by anytime."
"I appreciate that."
"Seriously. Any time."
"Thanks."
I stand. He stands. Another handshake, same calibration as the first. The diploma from Emory catches the light. The dog photograph watches from the desk. Six-point-one for the office. The plant saves it from a five-eight.
"Take care, Luca."
"You too, doc."
The door closes behind me. I walk toward the locker room. My phone is in my pocket, screen against my thigh. The broadcast is running. It has not stopped running since I opened his door. It ran through every question and every answer and every smile I gave him, and he wrote things down in a folder and the things he wrote down are the things I showed him and the things I showed him are the version of me this building knows.
Marchetti is at his stall when I come through the locker room door. Music on his phone, something with brass.
"How was it?" he asks.
"Fine. Easy. He's a nice guy. Six-two for the quarter-zip."
"You rated his outfit?"
"I rated the color. Muted olive. Safe choice. Points for consistency with the office palette."
"You rated the office?"
