What went wrong tonight?
What needs to change before tomorrow's game?
How would the team respond?
The usual questions. The kind athletes probably answered so often they could do it in their sleep.
Then the reporter smiled. "One more before I let you go. There has been a lot of attention on your personal life lately. Do you think all the extra media attention has made things more difficult this season?"
I felt myself straighten. The question wasn't surprising. That didn't make me like it.
Thane's expression barely changed. "No." The answer came immediately. "The media attention comes with the job. We lost because we didn't execute well enough tonight. That's on us as a team."
The reporter tried again. "So you don't think the distractions have affected your game?"
"No." Thane's tone remained calm. "I know people like easy explanations. Hockey usually isn't that simple."
The interview ended a few seconds later. Part of me felt relieved. Another part couldn't stop thinking about the question. Not because of what Thane had said, but because somebody had asked it in the first place. As though a relationship automatically became a problem that needed to be managed.
I picked up my phone.
Me: Sorry about the game. You okay?
My thumb hovered over the screen for a second before I hit send.
The message delivered. I stared at it for a moment. Then I set the phone down again.
I left the television on for another twenty minutes before finally giving up and turning it off. The apartment immediately felt quieter.
I rinsed out my mug, checked that the doors were locked, and spent a few minutes wandering around doing small tasksthat didn't actually need doing. Straightening a stack of books. Wiping down a clean countertop.
Anything to avoid admitting I was waiting for my phone to buzz. By the time I got ready for bed, there was still no reply. That wasn't unusual.
The game might have ended, but Thane's night hadn't. There were post-game meetings, travel back to the hotel, treatment, media obligations, and probably a dozen other things I didn't know about. Professional hockey didn't stop when the final horn sounded.
I set the phone on the nightstand and pulled the blankets up.
Mr. Maple sat in my closet. For a second, I considered getting up and bringing him into bed with me. Instead, I left it where it was. My eyes drifted to the phone one last time.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
Sometime later, the vibration of my phone pulled me out of a light sleep. I blinked at the darkness and fumbled for the screen. The brightness made me squint. A social media notification sat at the top of the lock screen. Beneath it was something else. A missed call from Thane.
I sat up a little straighter. Checked the time. 1:17 a.m. The call had come through less than ten minutes earlier. I considered calling him back. Then I imagined him having to drag himself back to the hotel, exhausted after the loss and from the post-game obligations he still had, and tried to call before passing out.
I lowered the phone.
Tomorrow.
We'd talk tomorrow.
TWENTY-SIX
THANE
The hotel room was still dark when I woke up. Then the previous night's loss came back to me along with the reality of another game waiting tonight.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand. No new messages. That wasn't surprising. It was still early. Kieran was probably asleep.
