Page 4 of Home Ice

I got under the bar for my first set. Trier appeared at the rack on my other side somewhere around rep three. He set up for Romanian deadlifts and worked in silence long enough that I made the mistake of relaxing.

“So,” he said. “Big morning. Announcement and everything.”

“Yep.”

“Very composed. Very smooth. I just want you to know that nothing changes for me. You were already on thin ice with the haircut.”

“The haircut is fine.”

“The haircut is a cry for help, and now that I know you more fully as a person, I hear the cry more clearly.” He loaded another plate. “Congratulations, by the way. Genuinely. I can introduce you to a stylist here in the city.”

“Thanks.”

Trier’s phone buzzed on the bench behind him. He checked it between sets and frowned.

“Problem?” Heath asked, dropping from the bar.

“The vet moved the cat’s appointment, and now it conflicts with my treatment slot, so I have to see if I can move that.”

“You’re moving your treatment for the cat,” Heath said.

“I’m moving my treatment for a senior cat with a thyroid condition who does not enjoy the carrier and needs the morning slot when she’s calm.” He set his phone down and picked his bar back up. “She was there for my whole rehab summer. She can have this.”

“How old is she now?” Kieran asked.

“Fourteen.” Trier finished his set. “She’s in great shape. We’re managing the thyroid thing.” He looked over at me. “You’ll eventually meet her. Everyone does.”

I didn’t know what to say. It had been six months already, and Trier had never invited me to his home. I said, “Okay.” Apparently, it was the right answer because he nodded as if we’d settled something.

I pushed through the last two sets with my legs complaining. Outside the windows, a barge worked its way up the river, low and patient, breaking the skin of ice ahead of it.

***

My phone was waiting in the stall cubby with messages stacked up.

Hal (my agent): Proud of you kid. Call when you can, nothing urgent.

Mom: Dad says the Hendersons’ Wi-Fi is out so we saw your news on Marlene’s phone. We love you. Are you eating?

The team group chat had forty-some messages, of which roughly six concerned me and the rest were snowblower stories inspired by Kieran’s dad. I sat down in my stall in a towel and answered all the direct messages.

Trier interrupted. “You’re going by the pro shop.”

“I wasn’t planning on going by the pro shop.”

“Sure, you are. Jamie there said it would take about fifteen minutes more. They’ll be done by the time you get there.”

I returned to the messages. It took me twenty minutes. When I finished, I picked up my bag, grabbed Trier’s skates from the pro shop, and headed down to the garage.

The players’ garage under the practice facility is the quietest place in the whole building. The cold comes up through your shoes off the concrete in January, and the overhead lights lay a flat white sheen over the parked vehicles.

I was alone as I dug for my keys with Trier’s skates under one arm. A door clicked somewhere behind me. I heard the voice of Mark from PR. “There he is. The man of the hour.”

He hurried across the garage to me. “Big day,” he said. “How are you feeling? Honestly.”

“Honestly, good. Everybody was great.”

“They were. The room was impressive, and you were great. Your comment to the media in the hallway was perfect. The power play was bigger news for us.”