They also haven’t lost a game when he hasn’t drank the smoothie, because he barely played before the first round. This is irrelevant. The smoothie is sacred. The smoothie is non-negotiable.
“Mackie.” Zach is in the doorway in his boxers, looking at the blender like it’s a threat. “It’s five in the morning.”
“It’s five forty-eight. And your smoothie isalmost ready.”
“I don’t want the smoothie.”
“You need the smoothie.”
“The smoothie has spinach.”
“The smoothie has VICTORY in it.”
He leans against the doorframe and watches me pour the green sludge into a glass. Today is different from other game days. Today Zach isn’t sitting on the bench. Today is Game 7 and the net is his.
He hasn’t said much about it. He doesn’t say much about anything when the pressure gets this big. He goes quiet and internal and starts doing the thing where he checks every lock on every door twice before bed and lines up his shoes by the front entrance and straightens the books on his shelf so the spines are flush. Control rituals.
I hold the glass out to him. He takes it. Drinks half in one go with his eyes closed and his jaw set before slamming down the glass and gagging.
“Happy?” he asks.
“Thrilled. Step two.”
“There are steps?”
“There are always steps.” I push him toward the bathroom. “Shower. Hot. Seven minutes.”
“Why seven?”
“Because seven is a lucky number and it’s Game 7 and I’m not leaving anything to chance.” I turn the water on. “I’ll pick out your suit.”
“You always pick the wrong tie.”
“I always pick the RIGHT tie. You just don’t trust me because of the paisley incident.”
“You tried to send me to a game in paisley.”
“Paisley is bold! Paisley says ‘I’m here and I’m not afraid’!”
“Paisley says ‘I got dressed in a thrift store with the lights off.’Navy tie. The solid one.”
“Fine. Navy. Boring. You’re boring and I love you.”
He steps into the shower, hissing at the temperature. I stand there watching the steam curl over the glass door, tracing the blurred shape of him through it. I want to open that door, climb in, and hold onto him until tonight is over.
I lay out his suit. Navy tie, like he asked. I make the bed because his superstition requires the bed to be made before he leaves for a game, which is a superstition I invented and told him was a real hockey thing and he believed me because he will believe anything I tell him about hockey traditions, a power I have abused without shame.
He comes out of the shower with a towel around his waist and water still on his shoulders and I have to physically stop myself from shoving him onto the freshly made bed.
“Your suit’s out,” I say. “Navy tie.”
“Thank you.”
“Step three.”
He pauses, one leg in his boxers. “What’s step three?”
“Step three is you let me do the thing.”
