Chapter 7 Pratt
Chapter seven
Pratt
Iwoke at five forty-two, two minutes before the alarm, and didn't move.
The floor had pulled the heat out of my back somewhere around three and not returned it. My right hip stiffened during the night, consistent with Tuesday's drill sequence. It wasn't structural, and a hot shower would handle it.
I sat up, folded the blanket in thirds, pressing the creases flat with both hands. I set it against the baseboard.
The shower ran hot enough that the mirror fogged before I finished. It was four minutes, timed in the beginning, but now my body kept count without me.
I worked my right hip through its range while the heat moved into the joint: external rotation, internal rotation , and straight extension until the catch released, allowing it to move cleanly again.
I spread my hands against the tile, checking my grip response.
The knuckle on my right index finger had taken a stick heel in Thursday's practice and was still thick at the joint.
Sully's side of the wall was quiet. It always was at six-fifteen. His days ran late, and his mornings were short. I absorbed his schedule the way I did everything in my environment, by proximity.
In the kitchen, I pulled out a skillet, heated the oil, and placed the chicken strips in it.
I'd cooked my rice for the week and portioned it into containers on the top refrigerator shelf.
My carrots were on the next shelf down, already chopped.
After fifteen minutes in the air fryer, they'd be ready.
I ate standing, plate centered on the counter, with my water bottle to the right. Game-day eating was fuel, not truly a meal. It was maintenance of the body with a sequence attached.
Somewhere in the middle of eating, I set the fork down and it landed at an off angle. Four degrees, maybe. The tines pointed toward ten o'clock, with the handle drifting left.
Sully had kissed me the day before, the way a forward cuts to the net when the defenseman is distracted. He wasn't fast or loud, just there before I read the play. I didn't move. I wasn't sure I'd have moved if I had seen it coming.
He said goodnight without making it a production and went home. I'd stood at the closed door for a moment doing nothing.
I picked the fork back up and finished the meal. The kitchen ran quiet and clean around me, anchored by the low hum of the refrigerator. The counter was clear, with nothing out of place. When I finished, I rinsed the plate and set it in the rack.
Three things had to be present before I left the condo: keys, wallet, and phone. I checked the pockets.
After pulling on my coat, I played the first ten seconds of the "More Than a Feeling" chorus. The lift is immediate; no runway required.
I gathered my gear. The lamp was still on in the corner. I'd left it on after Sully went home and didn't turn it off before bed. It had sat in its box for five weeks, then Sully appeared in the gap of my door, and it was glowing in the corner within a half hour.
I picked up my bag and went to work.
Game day morning skates ran lean, forty minutes, sometimes shorter. It was a quick system check.
Rook was already in his stall when I entered the locker room, dressed to the waist and reading something on his phone. He glanced up.
"Morning."
"Morning."
He went back to his phone.
I dressed left to right: left skate, right skate, left pad, right pad. No variations, particularly on game days. Alterations were errors, and they could set off ugly chain reactions.
Varga was already talking when he arrived, apparently continuing something from the parking garage.
"— Pittsburgh needs a name by tonight or the window closes. These things have a half-life." He dropped into his stall and scanned the room. "Pratt. Weigh in."
"No."
"That's not engagement."
"I know."
He pointed at me like I'd confirmed something useful, then turned to Cross, who was busy taping his stick.
Heath came in still talking, glove tucked under his arm, helmet swinging from two fingers.
“—I’m telling you, Pickle said he had a dream the Sleeping Giant woke up and walked into downtown Thunder Bay. Like—Godzilla, but nobody cared.”
He stopped at Kieran’s stall and leaned in without waiting for an opening.
Kieran didn’t look up. He kept his stick braced against his knee and continued his tape job, steady and exact.
Heath reached out and dragged his fingertips once across the back of Kieran’s neck as he passed behind him. Kieran’s shoulder shifted slightly. He didn't pull away or stop taping.
I watched for a few seconds before returning to my gear.
On the ice, I checked the crease. The overnight crew had been thorough, leaving no soft spots. I moved with a lateral push left, reset, and then to the right. The geometry was clean.
I came off the ice with my hip loose, and my edges sound. Cross fell into step beside me in the corridor.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
A slight pause. “Dearborn. New Chinese place. Don’t go late.”
Cross peeled off toward the training room.
***
It was early afternoon when I returned to my building. There was a folded piece of paper with the edge tucked under my door. I crouched and picked it up.
9.5 is a serious score. I'd have questions about the 0.5 deduction if I weren't also the guy picking off packing foam. — next door
I read it again. The handwriting moved fast and didn't double back, loose letters with a slight rightward lean. The fold landed somewhere between halves and thirds, not committed to either. It had a perforated edge from a notepad still attached at the top.
Folding it back, I didn't use the original crease. That one ran slightly diagonally. I folded parallel to the edge, properly.
Inside my condo, the lamp was still on. I set the note on the counter, close to the center, where it wouldn't be in the way of anything.
Next door was quiet. I took my phone out, selected "Heart of Glass," one of Dad's favorites, and set the volume low.
I went to get ready for the game.
***
Pittsburgh played the way Pittsburgh always did on the road—physical in the corners. They always made it ugly before the game ended.
The first period ran clean. The second tightened when their top line started winning retrieval battles and generating second chances I had to account for in real time.
A deflection off a shin pad changed angle late and caught me high on the blocker.
I controlled the rebound, but it came off harder than I liked.
I had eleven saves through two periods and six more in the third when they started loading the front. They put two bodies at the top of the crease, one crosschecking for position, and collapsed my angles. I took contact twice without a whistle.
They pulled their goalie with four minutes left and put six skaters on the ice. The building grew loud; the sound vibrating up through my skates before it reached my ears. I tracked the puck, read the lane, and decided before the shot left the stick. I'd done it ten thousand times before.
Cross put the puck in their empty net with thirty-eight seconds left. I had eighteen saves. We won.
The locker room after the game was loud for the first ten minutes. Coach Markel stepped in once, not raising his voice.
“You stayed inside it,” he said, looking in my direction before he moved on.
Cold air hit my sweat-streaked body when I pulled my base layer over my head. That was always the moment the game actually ended, not at the horn or with Cross's empty-netter. It was the cold of exposure after a full game wearing pads, blocker, and glove.
I stood under the hot shower until my hands felt like my hands again.
My right index knuckle had stiffened further during the game, the joint thick and reluctant when I flexed it. It was something to mention to the training staff in the morning.
Varga was still talking when I left. He was always still talking when I left.
I was home by eleven. The lobby lights were low, night mode, when I entered. The front desk glowed, with the rest of the room dim. Martin, the doorman, looked up.
“Nice work tonight,” he said. “That last sequence in the third—was something.”
“Thank you.”
I crossed to the elevators. Hit the button. Stood with my bag still on my shoulder.
He watched me for a second. “You always make it look easy.”
“It isn’t," I said. "It's repeatable."
He smiled at that, as if he’d expected it. “Still.”
The elevator doors opened. I stepped in and turned, hand on the panel, and realized I hadn’t selected a floor.
I pressed it. The doors closed.
The note was where I'd left it.
After changing into shorts and t-shirt, I came back to the kitchen. I wasn't hungry, but my body needed post-game fuel. I cracked two eggs into a pan and dropped bread in the toaster.
I ate at the counter, staring at Sully's note.
For most of the day, I'd pushed thoughts of him away. I had to focus on the game. Now, I had time, a few minutes before bed.
He'd taken the left side of the couch without asking, one arm along the back, body angled toward me. Sully didn't sprawl. He settled himself and adjusted to face me.
His hands moved when he talked, not nervously, but as part of the conversation. When he laughed, the sound was loud and unguarded, unmistakably real.
He'd kissed me yesterday, and this morning he'd found a notepad to connect again.
I put my dishes in the dishwasher, turned off the kitchen light, and left the lamp on .
I was still awake at one when I heard his key next door. The door opened and closed. There was no music at first. The tap ran briefly, and I heard the creak of his couch taking on weight.
I could place him in the room.
Shirt pushed up slightly where it had caught at his side. One arm across the back of the couch with the other hand loose against his thigh. His head would tip back, eyes half-closed, waiting.
There was nothing for a while. Then it came through the wall.
One knock. The single point of contact in the dark. He'd done it first several weeks ago.
The silence after it was complete.
I lay still, and my heart pounded at a rate I associated with the last minutes of a tied game. It wasn't panic. It was the body at full attention, waiting for the next thing to happen.
Thirty seconds. Maybe more.
He didn't press. Sully didn't apply pressure anywhere. He offered one knock.
My hand moved. I pressed my palm flat against the drywall. The surface was cool and slightly rough under my palm.
Then I curled my fingers into a fist and knocked once.