The room laughed. Varga, vindicated, dropped his bag at his stall, peeled off his jacket, and hung it with two-handed care. It was reverence he reserved for a gift I’d given him on his last birthday.
He stood and approached my stall.
“Rook,” he said, mid-stride, “I need tape.”
“You have tape.”
“I need your tape.”
“It’s the same tape.”
“It’s not the same tape.” He was already reaching up over my head to the shelf where I kept my rolls, and his chest came within four inches of my face. I smelled the cologne—the leather-scented one I’d told him I liked in our second year together. He didn’t wear it often, but he wanted me to know when he did.
Varga smelled of cologne, toothpaste, and a faint underlayer of espresso. In other words, he smelled like our bathroom in the morning.
He came down with two rolls of tape.
“Stay out of grocery stores,” I said, into my knee pad.
He pointed the rolls of tape at me. “You,“ he said, “are anti-produce. You are part of the problem.”
“Move.”
“I’m moving.”
He grinned at me with a private grin. It lasted for about a second and a half. Then we were the Rook and Varga Show again, as he walked back to his stall with two rolls of tape held aloft in victory.
“I am going to make Rafe try guacamole tomorrow,” he announced. “Rafe, you’re going to lose your mind.”
“I’ve had guacamole.”
“You’ve had guacamole, but you haven’t had mine.”
Rafe smiled at his laces.
Mark, our PR director, walked into the room, clipboard in hand.
He worked the stalls counterclockwise from Cross’s empty one. He was friendly without being warm and came to all the home games, sat in the family box, and didn’t talk about work there.
He stopped at Varga’s stall first. Varga had his skates in front of him, checking the steel. He looked up and gave Mark a wide, unfiltered smile.
“Lucas. The —“ Mark gestured at his own chin.
“Don’t you start, Mark.”
“I was going to ask if I needed to put out a press release.”
“Go ahead and put it out.I love a headline.”
“I don’t think they’ll write about that.Hawks Magazine.They want a ten-minute chat for the season-preview piece. Probably going to ask you about Mikkelsen.”
“They want to know if Rafe’s real? I’ll confirm he’s real.”
“I’m real,” Mikkelsen said, not looking up.
“He’s real.Tribunealso wants you on the bench mic Thursday.”
“Easy. Done. What else?”
