"That's the yes people use before they resign or vomit."
"I am doing neither."
"Good. HR paperwork is awful and this plane has one bathroom."
I smile because the alternative is confessing to a senior operations director that I just had the most emotionally consequential night of my adult life with a veteran defenseman whose evaluation file I no longer touch but whose presence three rows ahead is making my chest feel structurally unsound.
"Tampa reports are due Monday," he says.
"I saw."
"Alderman wants Hale separated from veteran-pair impact."
"I know."
Davis looks at me for another second. He is not as blunt as Dani, but he sees more than people credit him for. Operations people survive on logistics and subtext.
"You need anything?" he asks.
The question is ordinary. Work-ordinary. Still, it catches me wrong.
I need the man three rows ahead to not be in pain. I need him to want to stay again when there is no hotel hallway forcing the decision. I need to know whether last night was a step or an emergency exit he happened not to take. I need my mother's impossible advice about vegetables and dogs and possibility to apply to a situation with professional boundaries, public risk,and a man who has spent fourteen seasons becoming fluent in omission.
"Coffee," I say.
Davis points toward the galley. "That I can solve."
I get up because motion is better than sitting with the conclusion. The plane is quiet. Players are either asleep or pretending to be, which is most of road travel after a loss. Jonah has a hoodie pulled over his face. Cole and Mik sit shoulder to shoulder, Cole's hand loose on Mik's wrist between the seats where anyone could see it and no one comments because this team has learned what ordinary can look like if you let it.
I pass Nolan's row.
His eyes are open.
He does not turn his head. He looks at me from the corner of his eye, barely a movement. His hand flexes once on his thigh.
It is nothing.
It is not nothing.
In the galley, I pour bad coffee into a paper cup and hold it longer than necessary. The flight attendant gives me the pleasant look of someone used to men in suits using beverage service as a way to avoid themselves.
When I return, Nolan's eyes are closed again.
On my seat, my phone lights up.
Mom:
Did you eat breakfast?
I stare at it. I had half a banana from the hotel lobby and coffee. Soo-jin Wren would not accept this as breakfast under oath.
I type:
Yes.
Then delete it.
I type:
