Rook’s breathing was deep and even.
I told him, more quietly, that I had been thinking lately about our routines. I wondered if someday there was going to be a Tuesday afternoon at a meat counter where I could just say the word and watch the face do whatever it was going to do, and walk out of the store with the duck and the eggs in their separate bag.
He didn’t answer. He was asleep.
I shut my mouth and lay there.
I lifted my head half an inch to look at Rook. The hand he had spread on my back had slid, in sleep, to my hip, palm warm and heavy where it had settled. I looked at the bruise under his collarbone, the silver at his temple, and the small line at the corner of his eye that hadn’t been there when we met.
The night I took painkillers and asked him to stay, I hadn’t known that I was asking for the rest of my life.
He said yes by bringing chicken and rice the next night, and the night after that .
I put my head back down on his chest and shifted my hip against his palm. I fell asleep too.
Chapter three
Rook
It was 10:15 a.m., and Markel was calling the next round. Trier was on my right side, hanging back at the top of the circle, where I wanted him. Cross’s line had the puck down low, and Varga was working the far boards with Mikkelsen.
I didn’t look directly at him. He was in my peripheral vision, like a compass pointing north.
Cross came down the boards on me slower than he could have. He dropped the puck back to the defenseman at the blue line, who shot. Pratt caught it clean at the far end and tapped his stick on the post without looking up.
I skated to the bench. Varga was circling back, grinning at something. I glanced at him, then looked back at the ice and kept skating.
The decision arrived as I sat on the bench, pulling my glove tighter. It had been loose since the second drill.
I was going to speak with Kovac.
Two rotations later, Heath came down the wing on Trier’s side, and I closed on him at the blue line. He had a step on me—not much, the step a smart winger gives you when he wants you tocommit your hips and then takes the inside lane the second they go. I didn’t commit my hips, and the lane wasn’t there.
The drill ended. Markel saidgood work.It was his version of a standing ovation. We headed for the tunnel.
I caught up with Varga halfway down the rubber matting. He was talking to Mikkelsen over his shoulder. “The trick is the head, Rafe, the head sells it, the puck doesn’t sell anything, the puck is just along for the ride.”
Mikkelsen said, “Yes, sir,” under his breath.
“Your gap was lazy,” Varga said, turning his head toward me.
“Your hands were lucky,” I said.
He returned his attention to Mikkelsen. “My hands have never been lucky in their lives, Rafe—Rafe, listen to me—my hands are a gift. They are what this team is paying for, and the old man over there is jealous because he needs reading glasses to type a text message—“
“Your hands were lucky.”
Varga went silent.
I stopped at the trainer’s door, having a quick word with Marco about my left shoulder, and I spoke briefly with the equipment kid about a stick. By the time I got to my stall, Varga was already half-undressed and telling Trier something that involved the words Brussels sprouts and garlic and had a punchline on the way. I changed without listening.
As I left, Mark caught me in the hallway outside the video room, clipboard against his hip.
“Hey, Rook. The Kovac thing. You said you’d think about it. No pressure, but he’s asking when works.”
“Tell him we’ll talk by phone,” I said. “Whenever he wants. I’ll do it from home.”
“By phone. Sure. He’ll probably be fine with that. You don’t want to sit down with him?”
