Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Pratt
Sully: Ha. Yeah.
I was at the counter with my morning coffee when I read it. They were two words responding to the Varga waffle iron story I'd sent the night before. My setup was four lines, and I'd sent it knowing the response would be better than my text. His responses usually were.
I scrolled back three days.
Sully was still there in the exchange, starting sometimes and picking up what I sent. He was present, but somewhere in the last seventy-two hours the depth had changed.
It was the same sideways delivery. What was missing was the follow-up that kept the line open past its natural end, making clear the conversation wasn't over.
I put the phone face down on the counter.
I'd called a two-game variance a tendency once in my third season, deciding a coverage gap in the left circle was a structural problem, and I adjusted my positioning accordingly. The gap didn't materialize in the next game.
One data point required a second before it qualified as anything. Sully worked the late shift three of the last four nights. His schedule ran irregularly at the best of times. Two words at twelve forty-eight am was a timestamp, not a pattern.
I rinsed my mug and picked up my bag.
***
Nashville had closed to within one point of us. I'd looked at the standings first thing. The margin was razor-thin.
The locker room had already metabolized the information by the time I arrived. Varga was laying out the historical rationale for our playoff hopes to Rook, who had his headphones on. Varga moved one ear cup.
"I'm not saying it's a slam dunk," he said. "I'm saying the numbers don't argue against it."
Rook replaced the ear cup.
Cross was at the center of the room, eating a protein bar. He was the picture of patience. He'd played with this pressure many times before.
I dressed and skated onto the ice.
For the first drill, forwards drove hard toward the net. Rook held his position and trusted the ice to bring the attackers to him.
The forwards came wide. The shot arrived elevated from the left side. I had it tracked before it left the stick and got my blocker up. It caromed off into the corner.
Holt collected it without looking at his skates.
For the second rotation, Holt closed his lane before I had to build in an adjustment. On the third, he held the forward wide on his own, and the pass option never formed. By the fifth rep, the half-second buffer I'd been allocating to his positioning for eight weeks was entirely gone.
When we finished up, I tapped the posts, left and then right, with the heel of the stick. I skated off.
In the locker room, I picked up my phone.
It had a blank screen. There was nothing from Sully. I put it face down on my stall's shelf and finished removing my pads.
***
I met Heath for lunch at a Korean place on Dearborn that had only twelve seats. He was already there when I arrived, fiddling with a cloth napkin. He looked up when I came in.
"Rook said something today after the skate. It was a complete sentence."
"What'd he say?"
"He said, 'Varga, that's enough.'" Heath laughed as he set his napkin down. "I saw the pain in Varga's eyes."
We ordered. The other ten seats were split between what looked like a law firm two-top planning the approach to a case and a handful of solo lunchers.
Heath got the sundubu-jjigae—spicy tofu stew.
Kieran had ordered it for him once without asking, and Heath said he ordered it for himself every time since.
I opted for the galbi, marinated short ribs.
"You couldn't get anything like this in Rhinelander," Heath said. "You couldn't get anything like this within a two-hour radius of Rhinelander."
The food came. Heath ate and watched the room between bites.
"Things good with you and Kieran?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Great."
He focused straight ahead. "We like our place."
"I thought it was right when we helped you move in."
"Oh, yeah, and Kieran insisted we repaint the extra bedroom we use as an office. It's aquarium blue. I make fish faces at him every time we're in there together."
He didn't lower his voice or pick his words carefully. It was just information.
"Kieran and those whales," I said.
Heath laughed. "He knows all of them at the aquarium. He can pick Ansel out from across the tank by how he moves his fins. It's twice a week for Kieran. I think he shares meditation sessions with Ansel."
"And he's been taking courses on the side?"
Heath stopped eating. "He told you?"
"He had a textbook on the team bus in Columbus. There was a whale on the cover. I added two and two and came up with four."
"Yeah." He set his fork down. "Marine biology. It's—it's the passion thing."
"It's good for all of us to have something after."
"Yeah, and we have some things to sort out , but that's after the season. It's fine. There's time."
We both finished our food. Heath leaned back.
"You okay?"
"Fine," I said.
"Would you tell me?"
"Maybe not."
Heath nodded. "Pratt, ever the enigma."
I paid. Outside, we went our separate ways at the corner. Heath turned left toward his car, and I went right toward mine. He lifted one hand without looking back.
***
The knock came at one twenty-two am.
I was on the couch with my laptop, running clips of Nashville's power-play strategy.
Sully had Thai from Randolph in one hand. He started talking before he had his coat off. "The guy at table six tonight asked for a beer that was, quote, sophisticated but not trying too hard." He moved past me to the counter and set the bag down. "I gave him a Pbr."
"What did he say?"
"That it was exactly right." He pulled containers out of the bag. "I was crushed for him."
He went to the second cabinet for bowls. He got the right one on the first try.
We ate standing. Sully had over-ordered.
Randolph always sent him home with an extra container.
"There's a woman who comes in every Wednesday," he said.
"Orders a vodka soda every time. Doesn't matter what I put in front of her.
I tried a margarita once, just set it down, and I told her it was on me.
She slid it back. Not rude about it. Just—no. "
He picked up his fork. "Tomasz watched the whole thing and told me afterward that some people already know what they want, and the best thing you can do is get out of the way. He said I'd been in the job two years and still hadn't learned to leave a good order alone."
I listened and ate and watched him.
The stories were right. The pace was off. He was still rushing. He didn't leave gaps to breathe between them.
Sully slid the rice container toward me.
"New guy on the Thursday rotation," he said. "Bartender. Tomasz trained him. Good instincts but he over-explains. I did that when I started. Nora told me nobody wants a lecture when they're thirsty."
"Is she right?"
"She's always right. He'll get there."
The story ended, and nothing followed it. I watched him for a few seconds.
"You seem tired," I said.
He looked up and laughed. "I'm fine. There was a guy last night who fell asleep at the bar. It wasn't a drift. He had his head on his arms, fully committed. I couldn't decide whether waking him was the kind thing or the cruel one."
"What did you do?"
"After ten minutes, he woke himself up, ordered water, and asked me not to tell anyone." Sully slurped a long noodle. "I told him my policy was confidentiality for anyone who kept the stool warm."
He finished his bowl, and I collected the containers. When I returned, he was looking at the lamp in the corner.
"I should let you sleep," he said.
"You don't have to."
He picked up his coat from the chair back and zipped it. "Nora's covering my Thursday. I'm taking Friday instead—different crowd, different rhythm. It's a schedule thing."
"Okay," I said.
He crossed the room, and I met him halfway. The hug was right, arms solid and weight pressed into me, but it was brief. He kissed me lip on lip and pulled back.
There wasn't one more thing.
"Goodnight, Pratt."
"Goodnight."
I rinsed the bowls and wiped the counter, then moved the chairs back. I hung the dishcloth on its hook before turning off the kitchen light. The corner lamp stayed on.
In my bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed.
After a while, I got up and picked up the blanket from by the baseboard. I laid it flat on the hardwood, one fold back at the top. I lay down on my back and looked at the ceiling.
It wasn't the night before a game, but I needed the floor.
I looked at the ceiling for a long time. The wall remained quiet.
***
Morning skate ran for forty minutes. Film was shorter, twenty-five, and it focused on Nashville’s top unit. Coach Markel made adjustments that Cross wanted through the neutral zone.
In the locker room, I checked my phone before I’d finished pulling the tape from my stick. It was blank.
“Laser tag,” Heath called from two stalls down. “Tonight. Kieran found a place that takes it seriously.”
I looked up. “What does that mean?”
“It means they have league nights,” he said. “Scoreboards. Strategy. You should come, Pratt. Take the offensive for a change.”
I had nothing I could pretend interfered. Sully was off for the day, but I hadn't heard from him. We were free until the morning skate tomorrow.
“Okay,” I said.
Heath nodded once and went back to his gear.
"I'm in too," piped up Varga.
I finished dressing, placing my gloves on the upper shelf. My helmet was on the hook, facing out. I picked up my phone on the way out.
I stood in the fourth-floor hallway long enough to confirm the absence of sound through Sully's door. There was no movement or music.
I considered knocking and gave it one quick rap. I waited three minutes. There was no answer. I stepped back, turned, and went down the stairs.
The laser tag arena was louder than I’d expected.
It wasn't chaotic. It was structured noise, voices layered and feet pounding in rhythm. The floor was a grid of partitions and open lanes, angled walls that broke sightlines at regular intervals.
I stopped just inside the entrance and took it all in.
There were three primary routes from the entrance to the far wall. An elevated platform sat along the right side. Near the center, a blind corner marked where two lanes intersected at ninety degrees. The lighting was low enough to obscure depth perception, but it was consistent across the floor.
Kieran was already there, talking to Heath at the check-in counter. He saw me and opened his eyes wide.
“You came.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me for a second, then smiled and turned back to the attendant. “We’re going to need one more.”
We geared up. I wore a vest and sensor points. It was lighter than my hockey pads, with no restriction through the shoulders. I tested the weight distribution, then the range of motion through my arms.
“Rules are simple,” Heath said. “Don’t shoot your own team. Try not to get shot.”
“Understood.”
The first round started without ceremony.
I took the left route off entry, cut through the central partition, and held at the corner where the sightline opened to the far lane. Two players crossed wide without checking the angle. I tracked both, waiting for the second to commit to the turn. I tagged him at close range.
On the second pass, I shifted right, took the elevated platform, and stayed there long enough to watch the flow. Most of the players moved forward consistently, only doubling back when they hit resistance.
Unpredictable movements were golden. I didn’t chase. I let them come through the space I targeted.
“Jesus,” someone said behind me after I tagged him from the corner without stepping into his line. “Where did you come from?”
I moved to the next position.
By the third round, the more skilled players adjusted. They checked the angles before committing. Overall movement slowed.
It didn’t matter. They were still arriving late.
“Damn,” Kieran said when we reset. “You're aggressive as hell, Pratt. Maybe you should be a forward.”
“Then who would guard the net?"
He laughed. Heath shook his head and handed me a bottle of water.
“Of course you’re good at this,” he said. “It’s hockey wearing shoes.”
“It isn’t,” I said.
He looked at me for a second. “No?”
“No.”
He smiled and turned back toward the floor. The next round started.
Between games, everyone clustered near the wall, talking and comparing scores.
I stood with them, close enough to be included. I wasn't at the center, but I was part of the circle.
Heath said something to Kieran and reached across to tap his shoulder. Kieran leaned into it without breaking his sentence, still talking to the group.
"Fuckin' a— Traffic on the damn Kennedy!"
Varga had arrived. In his first round, Heath, Kieran, and I ganged up and tagged him simultaneously.
He looked at each of us in turn, scowling. "I'm on your fucking team!"
Heath clapped him on the shoulder, and we worked together for the rest of the time.
We finished after five rounds. People peeled off in small groups.
“Same time next week?” Kieran asked.
“Yeah," Heath answered immediately.
He looked at me. “You in?”
“I’ll see,” I said.
He nodded, as if that were sufficient.
We stepped out into the night. The street was mostly empty.
“Good call,” Heath said. “You’re a wolf in there, Pratt.”
“It’s a controlled space.”
He laughed. “Everything is, for you.”
We split up in the parking lot and headed for our cars. The fourth-floor hallway was quiet when I returned home. There was no sound from Sully's place.
I unlocked my door and stepped inside, setting my keys down. I pulled out my phone. There were no messages.
Maybe the schedule had changed.
I typed a message to Sully:
Pratt: Are you working
I waited almost ten minutes for his response:
Sully: At Nora's.