Marchetti is reading a book in his stall. Another paperback, another hockey player on the cover. Thompson is next to him, reading over his shoulder. Kowalski is across from them, on his phone scrolling.
I sit down near Kowalski and start unlacing my shoes. "Anything interesting?"
He glances up. Poker face intact. "Ongoing research."
"How's the data?"
"Interesting. The hockey remains terrible. But the narrative structure is surprisingly sophisticated." He says this without a trace of irony, which is how I know he means it.
"And the romance?"
A pause. The poker face holds, but just barely. "Also sophisticated."
I don't push. Kowalski knows I know, and I know he knows I know, and this mutual awareness is more entertaining than any direct conversation about it would be. Whatever the three of them are doing with those books, it's becoming a thing I don’t think anyone else has noticed.
I leave him to his research and head to the ice.
Morning skate is sharp. The cuts have done what cuts always do. Everyone remaining is faster, more focused, and more aware that the ice they're skating on is not guaranteed. Drills run clean. Compete level is up. The coaches look satisfied in the restrained way coaches look satisfied, which is to say they look slightly less displeased than usual.
Between drills, I watch the captains.
Ikonen exits every interaction early, except with Asher. They have a rhythm. Asher skates over between reps, says something, Ikonen responds. Two exchanges, maybe three. Asher grins or laughs. Ikonen's face does its version of a reaction, which is minimal but present. Then they separate and run the next drill.
Except today, Ikonen initiates. Not a conversation, nothing that obvious. But between rotations, Ikonen glides to the boards where Asher is drinking water and stands there. Doesn't say anything. Asher looks over, and whatever he sees makes him smile, and he starts talking. Ikonen stays.
After practice, I shower and change and find the rookie bench. Davis is there, quiet, watching the hallway. Mueller is icing his knee. Hájek is on his phone, texting in Czech.
"Still here," Davis says when I sit down. He doesn't specify what he means. He doesn't have to.
"Still here," I say.
Tomorrow there might be fewer of us in this hallway. Fewer nameplates, fewer stalls, fewer guys who made it through the week. The math doesn't stop. But today, the four of us are on this bench, and the team that's forming around us is feeling like this is worth being part of, and I'm going to sit with that for a minute before I worry about what comes next.
Chapter 15: Hájek
After practice, Marchetti approaches me in the locker room with something in his hands, which makes me slightly nervous because I don't know Marchetti well enough to predict what this would be.
"Hájek." He sits on the bench next to my stall. "You're working on your English, right?"
"Every day," I say. This is true. My English improves because there is no alternative.
"Okay, so." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a paperback. Hockey player on the cover, dramatic lighting, a title I can read but don't recognize. "This might help. It's, uh, very conversational. Good vocabulary. Lots of dialogue."
I take the book. It's light, well-worn, spine cracked in several places. Someone has read it more than once? "Thank you. What is it about?"
"Hockey. It's about hockey players." He pauses. "There's also some romance. Between the hockey."
"Romance is good for vocabulary," I say, because this seems like the right thing to say and also because it's probably true. Emotions require many words.
"Exactly. That's exactly right." Marchetti looks pleased in a way that seems larger than the moment warrants. Behind him, Thompson is tying his shoes with his face turned away from me. His shoulders are shaking. Kowalski has his phone out at an angle that might be pointed at us, though I could be wrong about this.
"I will read it," I say. "And tell you what my thoughts."
"Please do," Marchetti says. "Please absolutely do."
He returns to his stall with a bounce in his step. Thompson and Kowalski lean toward him and the three of them have a conversation in voices too low for me to hear. Thompson's face is red. I don't understand what's happening, but the book is in my hand and someone has given me a thing to help with my English and that is kind.
That night in my apartment I make tea the way my grandmother makes it, strong and dark with too much sugar, and I sit on the couch and open the book.
