31. Gerald
GERALD
Gerald watches Nolan Cray leave the building for the last time as a player.
Some men leave with cameras. Nolan leaves the way Gerald has watched him leave for four years: bag over one shoulder, head level, stride even until the hip reminds him it has a say.
But tonight Nolan stops at the desk.
"Gerald."
"Nolan."
The man from the front office waits near the doors with two coffees, tie loosened, glasses crooked. Men think waiting is invisible. It never is.
Nolan looks at the desk. "Four years. I walked past this desk and gave you two words."
"You said good morning," Gerald says. "Every day."
"That's not much."
"That's more than most."
Nolan is quiet. Not the old quiet. Gerald knows the difference. The old quiet was a locked room. This quiet has the door open.
"He's good for you," Gerald says.
Nolan glances toward the doors. The front-office man lifts one coffee a fraction, patient and bad at pretending not to watch.
"How long have you known?" Nolan asks.
Gerald smiles. Answer enough.
"Morning," Nolan says.
"Morning."
Nolan walks to the doors. Takes the coffee. The front-office man says something Gerald cannot hear, and Nolan's mouth moves, not quite a smile but close enough.
They leave together.
Gerald waits until the doors close before he takes out his phone.
Gerald: The quiet one left with somebody tonight.
Lorraine: The hockey player?
Gerald: That's the one.
Lorraine: Good.
Gerald: He wasn't quiet.
Lorraine: No?
Gerald: He was waiting.
Lorraine: For what?
Gerald looks at the hallway. The light stays on after the doors close. It always does. For late workers, lost rookies, men who need one more minute before going home.
At the far end, the young defenseman lingers outside the locker room holding a water bottle, alone in the noise he has not learned to carry.
Gerald: For someone to hear him.
Gerald turns off the desk lamp. The building settles. The last shift is over, but the hallway light stays on.
He won't be for long.