I stand. The hip is stiff. Alderman notices and does not comment, which is wise.
At the door, he says, "Nolan."
I stop.
"Whatever you decide, decide it for yourself."
I look back. "That's the problem."
He almost smiles. "Usually is."
I leave.
For two days, I do not call Caleb.
This is not noble. It is not cruel. It is procedure. If I hear his voice, the decision will grow his shape around it, and the point of him giving up control was that I would not have to wonder whether his hands were on the scale. I will not put them there myself.
He does not call me either.
He understands. Or he is angry. Or both. Caleb is capable of holding multiple truths in one clean sentence. I am less capable and therefore choose silence.
I call my agent. He tells me the contender is serious. He tells me the role would be third pair, penalty kill, maybe second unit if injuries hit. He tells me their medical staff reviewed available records and are comfortable with the risk.
Comfortable with the risk. Easy when the risk is someone else's hip.
I call my sister and hang up before it rings.
I do not call Caleb.
I watch Isaac practice.
First day, he hesitates at the blue line once and then goes on the next rep. Wrong lane. Better wrong. He looks over after the play dies and I nod before I can stop myself. His whole face lights up, which is embarrassing for both of us.
Second day, Callahan puts him with Cole for a controlled scrimmage. Cole talks through the first shift. Isaac listens. On the second shift, the puck comes up the wall and Isaac pinches before the forward can settle it. Clean keep. Shot through traffic. Rebound chance.
Not spectacular. Useful.
The bench taps sticks.
Isaac looks at me.
I do not nod this time. I say, "Again."
He grins.
After practice, the rink clears. I stay on the bench with my gloves off and my stick across my knees. The hip throbs in time with my pulse. I look at the ice. The blue line. The corners. The places where the ice fails if you do not know how to see them.
Four years in Atlanta.
I arrived at thirty-one because expansion teams need veterans who know how to lose professionally and not poison a room while doing it. I expected to be here two seasons. Three at most. I did not expect Cole to come out. I did not expect Mik to follow him into a life that visible. I did not expect Jamie, or Wes, or Luca's biscotti, or Gerald's two-word mornings, or Isaac Hale asking me how to be wrong.
I did not expect Caleb Wren in a film room with a loose tie and a red cell that used to be mine.
The contender gives me a cleaner ending. A playoff run somewhere else. A veteran rental. Less history. Fewer questions.No kid wearing my future on his skates. No man in the offices who has seen too much and touched me anyway.
Leaving would be easier to explain.
Staying would be harder to survive.
