Page 27 of Thin Ice

"When you first got here, you asked if somebody had told me a window, and I stonewalled you." I rolled my weight another inch onto the ball and exhaled.

"You did."

"Ask me again."

He stood and then sat on the ottoman, close to me, with his forearms on his knees. He didn't ask. Instead, he waited.

"This is the last one," I said. "The window's not closing. It closed. I've known since October—training camp, first week, the hip told me. I could have stopped then, but I signed up for the year anyway." The ball sat under the deepest part of the ache and I stayed on it. "There's no next run. There's tomorrow, and then there's up to six more games if we're lucky."

The information was out. I delivered it directly, the way I'd have wanted it from anybody else. I had told no one else, not Brick, Hannah, or even the mirror.

Elias didn't console me. He didn't tell me about hip resurfacing or the guys who play till thirty-nine now. He sat with the information and then asked me a question.

"What does it feel like?"

"Like being late," I said. "For everything I've done since I was a little kid, my body has responded instantly. Now I ask and there's this—gap. Nobody upstairs can see it yet, but I can't see anything else."

Elias reached out and rested his hand on the hip.

"I'm glad you shared," he said.

***

I woke a little after one and padded to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The living room lights were off, but Elias was in the room. He never sat in the dark. He read late and worked late. Now, he stood at the windows, silhouetted by the glow of the streetlights.

He was looking down.

"What," I said.

He didn't startle. He'd likely heard me get up.

"Not sure yet."

"Not sure of what?"

He turned to face me. "I say nothing until I'm sure of it. It's a useful habit."

I walked up to the window and looked down. The street was empty except for a few parked cars.

"Game's in twenty hours," I said.

"And you need sleep," he said. "Go to bed, Nolan. This part's mine."

Chapter nine

Elias

Istood at the curb, across from the Colchester, under a sweetgum tree. It was six a.m., and a car had been parked in that precise spot most of the night. Someone sat unmoving behind the wheel while I watched for at least an hour. I went down to check the service entrance, and by the time I returned to the condo, the car was gone.

The car had no plate, and I couldn't see the driver's face clearly. There was nothing specific to report when I called Michael.

"So you watched a parked car for an hour," Michael said, "and now you're calling me at four in the morning about it. The sun won't be up here for a long time."

"You were up anyway, Michael. I watched it for an hour," I said. "It didn't do anything. That's what I don't like."

"You know what tonight is," he said. "Game One of a Cup Final, five miles from that curb. Half the metro area would sit outside Mercer's building just to breathe the air. You've got people wearing his face on shirts."