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"Text him," he said.

"I did. After game six."

"I know. You showed me about a hundred times." He pulled his zipper up. "Text him again. Tell him to come over."

"It's the night before game seven."

"So?"

"So I need to sleep. I need to focus. I can't have a whole—" I waved my hand. "Thing. Tonight."

Sorel looked at me with his most responsible face, the one he uses when he brings hand sanitizer to taco places.

"Rémy," he said. "You haven't slept since Nashville. You're not going to sleep tonight either. You're going to sit on that couch and redo your laces until your fingers bleed." He opened the door. "At least if he's here, you'll have somebody to not sleep with."

"That's not⁠—"

"Goodnight," Sorel said, and shut the door before I could throw a puck pillow at him.

I didn't text Owen.

I redid the laces instead. Twice. Very calm. Very normal. Totally a man who is fine.

I press the button on the intercom. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Castel." It's Ray, the doorman. He sounds strange. "I've got a Mr. Owen Hale in the lobby for you."

I don't say anything.

"He gave his name," Ray says. "Just walked right up to the desk and said it. Owen Hale, for Rémy Castel." A pause. "He's on crutches, Mr. Castel. Should I send him up?"

The pink lace is hanging from my fingers.

He's never given his name. Not once. Not in seven months. He's always taken the stairs two floors up, or come in through the garage, or texted me from the parking level so I could come down and walk him past Ray like he was nobody.

"Send him up," I say.

It takes him a long time. I stand at the door of my apartment and listen to the elevator come up, and the doors open, and then the sound of crutches on the hallway carpet. A thump and a swing. A thump and a swing. Slow.

I open the door before he can knock.

He looks terrible. He looks wonderful. He's in a T-shirt and track pants, with one leg cut off at the thigh to fit over a black brace that goes from his hip to his ankle. His hair's a mess. His face is gray with how much the walk down the hall hurt. There are circles under his eyes like he hasn't slept since Thursday.

He's standing in the middle of the hallway, under the ugly lighthouse painting, where anybody could open their door and see him.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

"Ray says you're allowed to have visitors after five-thirty."

"Ray says a lot of things."

He looks past me into the apartment. At the orange couch. At my skates on the cushion, with the pink laces hanging off them.

"You're redoing them," he says.

"I'm nervous."