Chapter 5 Ash
Marco picks the restaurant because Marco always picks the restaurant.
I curate the list and he gets to choose.
This one is a tapas place in the Mission with a wait list that he somehow bypassed, which is the most Marco thing possible.
The man could talk his way into a closed embassy.
I've seen him charm a parking enforcement officer out of a ticket while the ticket was being written.
"To the Firebirds," he says, lifting his glass.
"Firebirds." I clink his glass. "I made the mistake of calling them 'the Birds' in a text. Got corrected."
"Corrected by who?"
"Ikonen. The captain, the guy I told you about. Texted back one word. Firebirds. No context. No emoji. Just the full name like I'd personally offended him." Just the thought of that text cracks me. A man of few words is an understatement.
Marco takes a sip of his wine and watches me over the rim of the glass.
Marco has a way of watching people that's somehow both casual and surgical, which makes sense for someone who does PR for a living.
Five years ago I did a charity event for his organization, a youth sports access thing in the East Bay, and by the end of the night he'd gotten me to commit to three more events and a golf tournament I'm still not sure how I agreed to.
We've been inseparable since, which is saying a lot considering I'm on the road half the year.
"The captain," he repeats. "This is the guy you called on his running trail?"
"He wasn't running when I called. He'd finished running. There's a difference."
"You know the details of his running schedule?"
"It came up. When we were talking." I grab a piece of bread and tear it in half. "He runs along the river in Philly. The Schuylkill."
"Mm-hm."
"What?"
"Nothing. Tell me about the tapas."
The food is good and I tell him about it because I tell him about everything.
That's how Marco and I work. He's the only person in my life who isn't hockey, who has no stake in trades or rosters or playoff brackets, and that gap between our worlds is the thing that makes the friendship breathe.
When I talk to Marco, I'm not Ash the player, I'm just Ryan, which is a version of myself that exists in a surprisingly small number of places.
I catch him up on everything. The apartment's mostly packed.
I fly out next week. The real estate agent in Atlanta, Denise, who I've already befriended because that's what happens when you spend four hours in a car with me looking at apartments.
I've narrowed it to two neighborhoods. I have opinions about both.
"Have you heard from Jess?" he asks, the way he always does. Light. No pressure.
"Texted her last week. She's good."
He nods. Doesn't push. We both know there's nothing to push on. The divorce is a closed door that neither of us rattles anymore.
I'm describing the Atlanta facility, which I've only seen in renderings but already have feelings about, when my phone buzzes on the table. I glance at it.
Good choice on Buckhead. Avoid the traffic on Peachtree.
Marco watches me read it. "Ikonen?"
"Yeah. I told him I was looking at apartments and he..." I look up. "What?"
"You're smiling."
"I'm a smiley person, Marco. This is not news."
"You're smiling at a text that says, and I'm reading upside down here, something about traffic?"
"He's being helpful. He's looked into the city more than I expected."
"Uh-huh." Marco leans back. "So tell me about this guy. You've mentioned him, what, four times tonight?"
"I've mentioned a lot of people tonight."
"You mentioned Denise the realtor once, and mentioned your strength coach once. You've mentioned Ikonen four times, and we haven't ordered dessert yet."
I take a sip of my drink and consider this.
He's not wrong. I have been talking about Avi, but that's because the Atlanta situation is all connected and Avi is the center of it.
He was one of the first named acquisitions and being two of the most senior people on the team it makes sense that we chat a lot…
He's interesting," I say. "Not what I expected. "
"What did you expect?"
"The reputation, I guess. Big, quiet, intense Finnish guy. Doesn't say much." I spin my glass on the table. "And that's all true. He doesn't say much. But when he does it's, like, the exact right thing? Or the funniest thing? And you don't see it coming because he's been silent for twenty minutes."
Marco is giving me the look. The one I've seen him use at fundraisers when a donor is revealing more than they realize.
"What," I say.
"You seem pretty enamored with this guy. Is he like a hockey legend?"
"He's a great player. Two-time All-Star. His dad played fourteen NHL seasons."
"That's not what I asked."
"I'm not enamored, Marco. I'm building a professional relationship with my captain."
"Captain? I didn’t think that was decided yet."
"He's most likely going to be the captain and I'll probably be one of the alternate captains, which means we run the room together. It's a partnership. I'm doing my homework."
Marco nods. His expression is perfectly neutral, which from Marco means he has an opinion he's choosing not to share. I know Marco's tells the way I know a defensive system. The neutral face is a tell in itself.
"He sounds like a good guy," Marco says. "I'm glad you have someone to figure this out with."
"Yeah. Me too."
His stare makes me uncomfortable. I brush that aside and move past it the way I move past everything, which is forward.
I signal for the check because tomorrow I need to finish packing the kitchen and I want to wake up early enough to run along the Embarcadero one last time before I leave this city.
Marco walks me to my car. The night air in San Francisco is the same as it always is in August, which is to say colder than it should be but not surprising.
"Ryan." He stops me with a hand on my arm. He's one of maybe three people who calls me that. "You're going to be great in Atlanta. I mean that."
"I know." I grin. "I'm great everywhere."
He doesn't laugh. Just looks at me for a second longer than the joke needs.
"Call me when you get there," he says. "You have a lot going on, but I am here for you. Call me whenever you need to."
"Things are going to be good, Marco."
"I know. Call me anyway."
I hug him. Tight, the way I hug everyone, with full commitment because there's no point in a halfway hug.
He hugs back. And for a second, standing on a sidewalk in the Mission, I feel the weight of eleven years in this city pressing down.
All the games, all the restaurants Marco and I have tried, have closed down.
The apartment that was mine and Jess's and then just mine.
Eleven years. That's a long time to be somewhere.
Then the second passes, we say our final goodbyes and Marco walks away. I get in the car. Turn on the music. Text Avi a photo of the restaurant's menu with the message.
Found our first team dinner spot when we play in SF. Thoughts?
His response comes four minutes later.
I do not eat tapas.
I laugh so hard I have to put the car in park.