“It's here now.”
I lock in for the rest of practice and push Jasmine out of my mind, which lasts about forty minutes until Mercer blows the final whistle and sends us to the locker room.
I towel off, change into sweats, and grab my phone from my stall. There’s only one text from Jasmine that was sent an hour ago.
Mom's taking me to some new restaurant tonight so I'll be off the grid. I'll cook for you Saturday night. Jollof rice. Mom's recipe. Be at mine by seven.
I read the message twice and smile. Lorraine's jollof is legendary. When we were dating in high school, I'd show up at the Bennett house praying that Lorraine had made it. I've eaten at restaurants all over North America in nine years of road trips, and nothing has come close.
I text back:I'll be there at six-fifty-five.
She replies with:Overachiever.
I put my phone in my bag and head to the parking lot. I can handle two days.
I drive home and eat lunch at the counter. Grilled chicken and rice, the same meal I've eaten on non-game days for three years. I wash the plate, dry it, and put it away.
The apartment is spotless because I cleaned it this morning out of habit. There's nothing to do except sit in a quiet apartment and not text Jasmine because she's with her mother.
I last forty-five minutes.
I go for a walk. It's cold out, and the streets around my building are busy with the afternoon crowd. I put my hands in my jacket pockets and walk south toward Central Park and loop through the lower trails where the trees are bare, and the benches are mostly empty.
I used to do this all the time. Long walks, alone, no destination. I liked the solitude. It cleared my head after practice.
Now the solitude feels different. The bench I pass near the Bethesda Fountain would be a good spot to sit with Jasmine on a Sunday morning with coffee. The path along the lake would be a good walk after dinner on a weeknight when neither of us is ready to go home.
I get back to my apartment at four and do an hour of stretching and foam rolling on my back. I watch game film for tomorrow's matchup against Boston. I eat dinner alone, then settle on the couch with a book.
At nine, I give up and text her.
Hope dinner with your mom is good. Miss you.
She doesn't reply for an hour, which means she's giving Lorraine her full attention, which is exactly what she should be doing. When the reply comes, it's short and sweet.
It's wonderful. Miss you too. See you Saturday.
I put the phone on the nightstand and get into bed. This is the first night in a week I've slept without her beside me.
I don't sleep well.
We beatDenver 3-1 at MSG. I play twenty-four minutes, block three shots, and assist on Cole's second-period goal. My back is tight afterward, but Lane works on it for thirty minutes in the training room, and the tightness loosens enough that I can drive home without wincing at every red light.
I eat leftover grilled chicken from a container in my fridge. It's fine. It's fuel. I eat at the counter and scroll through my phone, and the apartment is quiet in a way that used to feel normal and now feels empty.
Jasmine sends me a photo at ten. She and her mother are at a restaurant, sitting across from each other, wine glasses raised. Jasmine is leaning into her mother's shoulder. She looks happy.
Another text comes through.Mom says the sea bass is the best she's ever had.
I type back:Tell Lorraine I said hi.
There's a long pause. Then:She doesn't know about us yet, remember?
Me: Right. The agreement.
I put my phone down and go to bed. I can’t wait for tomorrow. I fall asleep thinking about Jollof rice.
Saturday morning, I go to the gym at seven, get treatment on my back at nine, and spend the rest of the morning at home doing laundry and watching game film from last night. I'm reviewing a sequence where I got caught flat-footed on a Boston zone entry when my phone rings.
