"They're all babies now. I'm old enough to be a much older brother at this point."
"What's his name?" Grant asks.
"Berger. Luca Berger."
"And Chapin asked you. Specifically."
"Chapin asks me about every new kid on the roster. He likes having a veteran in the room who isn't going to haze them or ignore them. I'm like the welcome committee."
"Okay." He goes back to his plate. Kevin looks at Grant, then at me, and the moment closes.
"Tell him about the cleats," Austin says to Kevin.
"I'm not telling him about the cleats."
"The cleats are relevant to his life."
"The cleats have never been relevant to anyone's life."
I lean back in my chair and drink the wine and let them go. The kitchen is warm and the windows are open and the Augustair is heavy and wet the way is in August. These three men in my apartment on a Tuesday night who eat my food and drink wine Austin didn't need to bring and argue about boat hardware nobody cares about. Eight years I’ve played in this city, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Grant helps me clear the plates. Kevin and Austin move to the couch. Austin will be asleep inside of fifteen minutes because Austin falls asleep on couches the way other people fall asleep in beds, fully and without warning.
At the sink, Grant hands me a plate and says, quiet enough that the other two can't hear, "You going to be all right with this kid?"
"It's a mentorship thing. Chapin does this every year."
"I’m not asking about Chapin. I'm asking about you."
"I'm fine."
He nods. Hands me the last plate. "Okay," he says. And doesn't say anything else, which is Grant. He asks the question once. He takes the answer. If the answer is wrong he files it, and he comes back to it later, weeks or months from now, when you have forgotten he asked.
They leave by ten. Kevin takes the leftover pork in a container because Kevin has never left my apartment without taking something from it. Austin blinks himself awake on the couch.
"Did I miss anything?" Austin asks.
"You missed the dishes," Grant says.
"I always miss the dishes."
"That's not an accident," Kevin says.
"It's a talent," Austin says.
"It's a lifestyle," I say, and Grant steers him toward the door with a hand on his back. Grant grips my shoulder at the door, brief and firm. "Good night, Wes."
I lock the door and stand in the kitchen with the lights low and the apartment going quiet around me. The version of this placeI know best. The place when the three of them have gone home and the food is put away and the camera is still on the coffee table where Grant set it back down.
Chapin sends me the kid's number and I sent him a text earlier.
Hey, it's Wes Mercer. Chapin passed along your number. Welcome to Miami.
I have a reply waiting from him when I check my phone. Full sentences, correct punctuation, a twenty-two-year-old making a good first impression.
Thanks so much, that's very kind of you. I'm still in Seattle packing up. Flying down next week. Any recommendations on neighborhoods?
I send him three neighborhoods and a restaurant. He sends back a paragraph about the restaurant's online menu that includes a scoring system I don't recognize but can tell is rigorous. He asks about parking at the facility. I answer. He asks about the weight room. I answer. He asks about the team's coffee situation and gives his opinions on Seattle coffee, and I realize I've been sitting on this couch answering his questions instead of watching the documentary I turned on an hour ago.
