Marco nods. His expression is perfectly neutral, which from Marco means he has an opinion he's choosing not to share. I know Marco's tells the way I know a defensive system. The neutral face is a tell in itself.
"He sounds like a good guy," Marco says. "I'm glad you have someone to figure this out with."
"Yeah. Me too."
His stare makes me uncomfortable. I brush that aside and move past it the way I move past everything, which is forward. I signal for the check because tomorrow I need to finish packing the kitchen and I want to wake up early enough to run along the Embarcadero one last time before I leave this city.
Marco walks me to my car. The night air in San Francisco is the same as it always is in August, which is to say colder than it should be but not surprising.
"Ryan." He stops me with a hand on my arm. He's one of maybe three people who calls me that. "You're going to be great in Atlanta. I mean that."
"I know." I grin. "I'm great everywhere."
He doesn't laugh. Just looks at me for a second longer than the joke needs.
"Call me when you get there," he says. "You have a lot going on, but I am here for you. Call me whenever you need to."
"Things are going to be good, Marco."
"I know. Call me anyway."
I hug him. Tight, the way I hug everyone, with full commitment because there's no point in a halfway hug. He hugs back. And for a second, standing on a sidewalk in the Mission, I feel the weight of eleven years in this city pressing down. All the games, all the restaurants Marco and I have tried, have closed down. The apartment that was mine and Jess's and then just mine. Eleven years. That's a long time to be somewhere.
Then the second passes, we say our final goodbyes and Marco walks away. I get in the car. Turn on the music. Text Avi a photo of the restaurant's menu with the message.
Found our first team dinner spot when we play in SF. Thoughts?
His response comes four minutes later.
I do not eat tapas.
I laugh so hard I have to put the car in park.
Chapter 6: Ash
The steakhouse in SoMa has been ours for years. Corner booth, leather seats, a bartender who starts pouring before we sit down. Six of us tonight. No wives, no girlfriends, no agents. Just us, the way it should be for the last one.
"To Ash," Coop says, raising his glass. "Who is leaving us for a team that doesn't exist yet."
"They exist," I say. "There’s a logo and everything."
"They have a logo and Fontenot," Westy says. "That's barely a team."
The table laughs. I laugh. This is how we talk, how we've always talked. Fast, overlapping, guys who've spent years in the same locker room, on the same planes, in the same hotel in Winnipeg at two in the morning after a loss. You build a language with people like that. Rhythm.
"October," Rico says. "That's when we play you in SF. End of the month."
"You're already circling the calendar?"
"I'm circling the calendar because I plan to hit you so hard you rethink this whole career decision." He grins. "With love."
"Rico, you've never hit me in practice once."
"I've been saving it."
Kyle is quiet, the way Kyle gets when he's processing something. "It's going to be weird without you," he says, and the table goes still for a half second before Westy throws a roll at him.
"We're not doing that yet. Steaks first. Feelings at dessert."
