I leave him there with the mirror and the tie and the spot that will someday fit whether either of us is ready or not.
In the parking deck, I take out my phone.
No messages from Caleb.
I write one. Delete it. Write another.
I do not know how to tell him I stayed without making it sound like I stayed for him. I did not. Not only. Not even mostly. I stayed for the ice. For the kid. For one more run with this team, in this building, with this body before the body becomes a fact I can no longer negotiate with.
I stayed because the decision was mine.
Finally, I send:
Declined the trade.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Then disappear.
Then:
Are you okay?
I stare at the question.
It is the correct question. Not are you sure. Not why. Not what does this mean. Are you okay.
I type:
Ask me tomorrow.
His reply comes after one second.
Okay.
I put the phone away.
The truck is where I left it. Same spot. Same routine.
Not the same decision.
NOLAN
The hip catches in Tampa with eleven minutes left in the third.
Not dramatically.
There is no fall. No collision. No trainer sprinting down the tunnel with a towel over one shoulder and a face that makes the crowd go quiet. The puck goes low to high, their winger cycles behind the net, I pivot to take the inside lane, and the joint locks for one clean, bright second.
One second is enough.
The body has opinions. Tonight it expresses them in capital letters.
I force the turn through because the alternative is letting the winger walk out front, and I have built fourteen seasons on making the alternative someone else's problem. Pain hits the back of the hip and travels down the thigh. The leg holds. Barely. I get my stick in the lane, deflect the pass, and Cole clears the puck.
On the bench, I sit down without changing my face.
Callahan looks down the line.
