Monica had finished with the bookshelf and was looking at the bare walls. “You need art.”
“He needs a shower curtain first,” Ski said.
“He needs both. But art makes it feel like someone lives here.” She looked at Leo. “What do you like?”
Leo opened his mouth, and nothing came out. His apartment in Orlando had been furnished by an interior designer his mother had hired because she said he shouldn’t waste the time he could be in the gym. Everything matched. Nothing had a scratch, a wobble, or a history that belonged to someone else.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said.
“There’s a thrift store on Second Street,” Monica said. “Ask for Dale. He keeps the good stuff in the back.”
Ford was checking his phone. “We should get going. I still need to figure out what I’m making for dinner so Charlotte doesn’t rat me out to her classmates.”
“I told them once,” Charlotte said from the couch.
“You told them Daddy was late and you had to eat cereal for dinner.”
“Youwerelate, and Idideat cereal.” Leo pressed his lips together to keep from laughing when she stomped her little foot and glared up at her dad.
“It was granola and you also had fruit and berries,” Ford argued. It was hilarious to watch him defend himself to a kid.
“That’s cereal, Daddy.”
Ford pocketed his phone. He didn’t argue.
They left in stages. Ford scooped up Charlotte, and Monica told Leo the thrift store was closed on Mondays. Ski made Leo promise to buy a shower curtain before the week was out, like a plain white liner was a character flaw. Novo left without saying goodbye, which Leo was starting to understand was just how Novo was.
The quiet that settled after the door closed was different from the quiet at the Lakeside Inn. Leo dropped onto the couch and pulled out his phone, scrolling through listings for a TV. He needed a second chair for the table too. Towels—he’d been using the one from his duffel for two weeks. A bathmat. The apartment had furniture now, but it was still missing the stuff that made a place functional, and he caught himself adding things to a cart before he stopped and stared at the screen.
He was shopping for an apartment that he wasn’t keeping.
He closed the app. The foil pan sat on the counter, scraped clean. Ollie had gotten five. Leo had gotten one, and a crew of guys had eaten most of it for him. He tried not to take it personally that his fridge wasn’t overflowing with food he wasn’t even sure he liked.
He opened the fridge. A six-pack of Point beer that Ski had put there at some point without Leo noticing, and a bottle of water he’d bought himself. He grabbed a Point—not his usual, but it was cold and it was there—and put his feet on the floor that apparently needed a rug.
He pulled out his phone. A text from his mother that he’d answer later. Nothing from Phil, which was starting to feel less like a slight and more like a fact. He typed a message to Ski.
Thanks for today.
The reply came fast.
That’s what we do, bud. Welcome home.
Leo read it twice. Set the phone on the arm of the couch and took a long pull of his beer.
Home. But the apartment didn’t feel like home, but it was a step up from the hotel. But he could see himself settling in here, and that scared the shit out of him.
He finished his beer. Unpacked the last of his clothes into the closet—twice the size of the one at the Lakeside Inn and still half-empty.
Training camp started in a week. After that, the preseason. After that, a season he’d play on borrowed time until Phil found something better or the front office decided he wasn’t a good fit for what they were building. That was the plan, and the plan hadn’t changed, and none of this—the furniture, the one hotdish, the shower curtain lecture—changed it.
Leo pulled up Phil’s number and stared at the screen until it timed out and went dark in his hand.
He set the empty bottle on the counter and dug through the kitchen box to see what all he had. It was mostly towels and dish rags plus a few potholders. Leo put put them away and moved onto the next box.
The apartment was quiet. Not bad quiet, just still, and Leo the silence was driving him batty. He picked up his phone and hit play on an upbeat playlist.
His mind still drifted as he unpacked the boxes stacked along the kitchen wall. Now that he had a rental car, he should head back to Milwaukee and try to get laid again. His fixation on Dawson couldn’t be healthy. Not once in his life had Leo been this hung up on someone who barely gave him the time of day.
