That is the worst part. I have known since October, since the extra stride, since the math became too simple to ignore. I have known and not translated. Now someone else translated it in a room with images and clinical vocabulary and the kindest possible voice.
No next season.
I call Dana.
She answers with, "Hey."
Not finally this time. Hey. She knows something from the silence before I speak.
"MRI," I say.
"I know."
My throat closes.
"How?"
"Because you've been skating like a man saying goodbye."
I look through the windshield at a woman loading groceries into a minivan. Normal life. Bags. Cart. Sunglasses on top of her head. A child in the backseat kicking one foot against the door.
"It's over," I say.
Dana inhales.
"The hip," I say. "Career. All of it. After playoffs, surgery. She said no next season."
There is a sound on the line. Not crying. Not yet. My sister taking the hit somewhere private.
"I'm sorry," she says.
Two words. The right ones.
I cannot answer.
"Nols," she says.
"Don't."
"Okay."
We sit on the line. She does not fill the space. She has always been better at silence when she is using it for someone else.
"Did you tell Caleb?" she asks.
"No."
"Are you going to?"
The question is not whether. It is when. Dana has already moved Caleb into the category of person who gets told.
"Yes."
"Good."
"I don't know how."
"Start with the words you used with me."
