"Two things," I say.
My voice is low. It carries because the room lets it.
"First. This is my last season. The hip is done. I'll finish the run if they'll let me, then surgery in May. I wanted you to hear it from me."
There.
The words exist outside my body.
The room is silent.
Not locker-room silent, which is just noise waiting for permission. Actual silence. Wes stands first. Of course he does. He crosses the room without hurry and puts one hand on my shoulder.
No speech.
Good man.
His hand is heavy and warm and scarred across the knuckles. It stays there for three seconds. Then he squeezes once and goes back to his stall. That is the entire thing. It is enough to make my throat close.
Luca moves next. Not to me. To my stall. He takes one biscotti from the container, wraps it in wax paper, and sets it on my shelf. Then he pauses, considers, and adds a second.
"Load management," he says.
The laugh that moves through the room is small and grateful and painful at the edges.
Jonah opens his mouth.
Cole says, "Park."
"I was going to say something respectful."
"That's what worries me."
Jonah puts one hand over his chest. "Cray, I promise to spend the remainder of this season narrating every blocked shot like it is historically significant."
"Please don't," I say.
"Respectfully denied."
The room laughs again. Bigger. The sound hurts less than the silence.
Isaac is staring at the floor.
"Hale," I say.
His head snaps up.
"You still have practice."
"Yes." His voice cracks on the word, which is unfortunate for him and useful for the room. "Yes, sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just stop looking like someone shot your dog."
"I don't have a dog."
"Then stop looking like someone shot a hypothetical dog."
Jonah whispers, "Powerful distinction."
