There is a trash can at the entrance. Gray. The kind with the swinging lid. I walk to it. I push the lid open with the edge of the book and drop it in. The lid swings shut and go inside to the locker room.
I sit and unzip my bag at my stall, pulling out my gear.
"Hey." Thompson. Standing at the edge of my stall. Arms crossed. Tape roll in one hand.
"Hey."
"You good?"
"I'm here."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's what I've got, Thompson."
He watches me. I can feel the calculation behind his face, whether to push or hold.
"I'm not going to apologize for last night," he says.
"I didn't ask you to."
"I know. I'm saying it anyway. I'm not going to apologize because I wasn't wrong. But I'm not going to come at you like that again."
"Good."
"I shouldn't have done it at dinner. In front of everyone. That part I'm sorry for."
"Fine."
"But I'm not sorry for what I said. I'm saying I see it. That's all. I see it and I'm not going to stop seeing it and I'm not going to pretend I don't."
I pull my skate onto my foot. The lace threads through the first three eyelets. My fingers know the pattern.
"You don't have to pretend anything, Thompson. I heard you. I'm here. That's what I can do today."
He stays for another beat. Then he goes back to his stall.
Marchetti comes through the door with his bag on his shoulder and his headphones around his neck, his hair still damp. He scans the room and finds me.
"Morning." He drops into his stall.
"Morning."
He starts unpacking. Skates, helmet, gloves. The order that is not an order, the anti-system that drives me insane on a good day.
"Did you eat last night?" he says. "After you left?"
"Yes."
"What'd you eat?"
"Marchetti."
"I'm asking because I'm hungry and I want restaurant intel. That's the only reason. Pure selfishness."
"I went home. I didn't eat out."
"You ate at home?"
