Nolan's mouth tightens. Praise still hits him like a bad pass in the skates.
"Because he has legs," he says.
"He had legs when he got here."
"Less brain."
"He had that too."
"Wrong kind."
I smile. "That may be the most affectionate thing you've ever said about him."
"Don't tell him."
"I value my life."
We lapse back into quiet. The game moves on. My apartment smells like sesame oil and rice and Nolan's soap, because he showered after practice before coming over and the fact that I know this by scent is information I will not be entering into any system.
There is a question I have been carrying since Tampa, maybe longer. It has waited through Dana, through the morning, through Nolan telling me he watched my college film in akitchen full of bad toast. It is not a question with a clean answer, which is why I have avoided it.
Avoidance is not participation.
"What do you want?" I ask.
Nolan looks over. "In general, or from your suspiciously organized rice?"
"After."
The room changes.
I do not clarify. He knows. After hockey. After this season. After the hip stops negotiating and starts issuing final orders. After the thing he has been since he was four years old becomes the thing he used to be.
His face closes by degrees. Not slammed shut. Shuttered. The kind of weatherproofing that happens before impact.
"I don't know," he says.
It is not evasion.
That is what stops me from speaking too fast. I can hear the honesty in it. The no-answer is the answer. Nolan has spent thirty-five years being one thing: kid on fresh ice, draft pick, defenseman, veteran, expiring asset, mentor, body on the blue line. He has not imagined after because imagining after would make after real.
My mind immediately offers options.
Coaching. Development staff. Broadcasting if he wanted to weaponize dry humor, though he would rather fake his death. Player development consultant. Front-office transition, absolutely not with me in the chain. Youth hockey in Minnesota. Scouting. Surgery, rehab, then something with less travel. A house. A dog. A kitchen big enough for my mother to approve of.
I say none of it.
This is one of the hardest things I have ever done.
Nolan watches me not say things.
"You're not going to tell me what to do?" he asks.
"No."
"Everyone tells me what to do."
"I know."
