I checked. Section 114, Row C, all five seats occupied. Sully was staring up at the ceiling. Tim was focusing on his pretzel. Courtney was leaning over the seatback, talking to a stranger in Row B, and Morgan was watching the ice crew run the Zamboni as if it were an instructional video. Dane was still staring at me, and my face grew even hotter.
“Still there.”
Third period started. Eight minutes in, Albany’s number 14 hit one of our rookies late, two strides after a clean dump, and the ref’s arm went up so fast you’d think he’d been waiting for it. Two minutes for charging. I tapped Coach’s shoulder.
“Called it.”
“You did.”
We scored on the power play. Cap off a faceoff that Orly won clean, off a one-timer from the left circle. Five-two. The horn sounded, and the arena got loud, but Sable didn’t flinch, and when I checked, Dane was smiling at me.
I stopped breathing for one second. I have a record on my phone of how long it usually takes me to start breathing again after something like that, because I started keeping the record after the ambulance two weeks ago. Tonight it was one and a half seconds, an improvement over the ambulance, which had been six seconds.
The Copperheads went on to win, five to two.
I gave Coach his clipboard. He slapped me on the shoulder, and I came out of the players' corridor into the main equipment hall, Sable at my left, my crutch under my arm, and nearly walked into a cart of sticks being pushed in the opposite direction by someone I didn't know.
Not a Copperheads face. Not equipment staff, or not the usual equipment staff. He was slight, younger than me, with dark eyeliner drawn carefully under each eye and a smear of what I think was concealer over a faint mark on his jaw. His hair was short and dark red, and he had a Copperheads lanyard that had SHARPENING on a paper insert in the name slot, which meant someone hadn't gotten him a real badge yet. He was wearing gloves with the fingers cut out, the kind that made sense if you were doing repetitive fine-work with your hands.
He saw me and pulled the cart short. "Sorry. I didn't see you coming."
"It's fine." I adjusted my grip on the crutch. "You're new."
"Ish." He looked at the crutch, then at Sable, then back at me. "I’m Kyle. I sharpen skates for the team. My dad's Bob, the equipment manager.
"Chip," I said. "I play here. Well, usually, but not right now.”
“Your dog is beautiful."
"Thank you," I said, and he smiled. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
I moved past the cart and left him to it. Maybe when I was used to him I’d be able to talk more, but right now I wanted to meet up with my friends.
The Filament CoffeeShop was three blocks from the arena and nine blocks from my normal coffee shop, Mabel’s, and that distance, for me, was the entire point.
The neon was the first thing you noticed and the second thing and the third thing. A pink coil along the top of the windows that spelled out FILAMENT in script. A blue tube running along the inside length of the bar. A loop of warm yellow above the espresso machine in the shape of an Edison bulb, except it was neon shaped like an Edison bulb, which was a joke. The walls were a dark teal. The booths were leather. There was music playing, something with a good rhythm. The espresso machine was loud, and the staff wore black. A chalk sign hung behind the counter listing five drinks I had never heard of and one drink I had under the heading WE ALSO DO COFFEE, which was, again, a joke.
I had picked The Filament because it was close and open late, because Walker had once mentioned in passing that their Americano was “fine,” and because I had never been there with the art guys. The art guys went to Mabel’s, where I went, where the booths were green vinyl, the coffee was burned, the woman behind the counter knew me by my drink order, and the lighting was a soft yellow ceiling fixture that didn’t buzz, flicker, or hum. The Filament’s neon hummed. I could feel it in my teeth a little, in a way I was choosing not to mind tonight.
I sat down in the booth last because Sable had to make a circle to find a flat spot on the floor and because I didn’t want tohave to climb past Tim to get to a seat. The booth was a corner U-shape, so I ended up next to Dane, with Courtney across from me and Morgan at the other end. Sully was next to Morgan, and Tim was on the outside. Sully was nursing a black coffee. Morgan had a hot chocolate, of all things. Courtney had ordered a flight of espressos because the menu offered one. Tim was eating a second pretzel, which he’d brought with him from the arena.
Dane had ordered me a decaf without asking. It was already in front of me as I slid into the booth.
“You said decaf at the station,” he said. “Was that a one-time decaf or a Chip-drinks-decaf decaf?”
“Chip-drinks-decaf-after-four-PM decaf.”
“It’s 5:41.”
“Then we’re good.”
He smiled into his own cup. Black coffee. Two sugars, which I had watched him put in. He stirred clockwise three times, then once counterclockwise, to break the foam, which I didn’t believe was a deliberate sequence, but I noticed it because I was staring at his hands.
“Caffeine reaches your brain in about five minutes,” I said. “And it peaks in your bloodstream between thirty and sixty minutes.”
“I didn’t know that,” Dane said and glared at Tim, who was grinning.
