“Long story,” I say.
He looks skyward with a sigh. “Sutton’s.” Like that explains everything.
We stay another twenty minutes. Long enough for Lila to name all four puppies in her head, I can tell by the way she’s looking at them.
In the truck she’s quiet, her hands folded in her lap,watching the dark road unspool in the headlights. I put my hand on her knee. Denver sits between us in the silence. Neither of us says anything yet, but she puts her hand over mine, and I take that as something.
The house is quiet when we get home.
Lucky’s dog bed is still in the corner of the living room. Her water bowl. The stuffed hedgehog Lila bought her that she drags around like a security blanket.
I take my wife’s hand and walk her to our bathroom.
The shower runs hot. We strip off the day, the bar smell, the woodsmoke from Rosemont’s fire, the long beautiful mess of Thanksgiving, and step in together without discussion.
I wash her hair.
She lets me, her eyes closed, head tipped back into my hands. I work the shampoo through slowly, fingers against her scalp, and she makes a small sound of contentment.
After she turns around to face me.
Standing on her toes to reach, her fingertips touch carefully around the bruise forming along my jaw.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“A little,” I admit.
She presses her lips to the bruise.
We stand under the water for a while after, her cheek against my chest, my arms around her, the shower steaming around us. My cock stirs as it always does at the feel of her body pressed against mine, but I ignore it. This moment is about something else. About two people who are closer to each other than anyone else in the world, reaching for comfort in each other after a long day.
There’s nothing fake about this marriage. Not a damn thing.
We dry off and get into bed, her side and my side, except my side has been her side too for weeks now.
Lila says, “Let’s talk about Denver.”
I stare at the ceiling in the dark, dreading the conversation that I already know is not going to go the way I want it.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s talk.”
Chapter 47
Heart of Stone
SLADE
She shifts against me, propping herself up on one elbow. I can feel her looking at me.
“Tell me what it actually looks like,” she says. “The season. Day to day.”
“Regular season runs October through April. Eighty-two games. Half of them on the road. Road trips can be three, four, five days at a stretch. Sometimes longer.” I pause. “If we make the playoffs, it goes through June.”
“And the road trips?”
“Means I’m gone a lot,” I say. “Morning skate, film sessions, travel, games. It’s not a flexible life.”
Another silence. I can feel her thinking.
