Chapter 21 Pratt
Chapter twenty-one
Pratt
It tumbled over as I opened the door, and I was staring at a slim gentleman and a shorter man upside down on an off-white background. I blinked as I recognized the words Fleetwood Mac. It was a vinyl album sleeve, and there was no doubt where it had come from.
I glanced at Sully's door, with no sound coming from that direction. Bending over, I picked it up by the edges and brought it inside, setting it flat on the corner of the counter.
My clock read five forty-two, and I started up the coffee. It was game day, and I had a meal to prepare.
The record stayed in my peripheral vision while the coffee brewed. When I had my mug in hand, I returned my attention to the cover.
It was the self-titled album Sully mentioned, not Rumours. The corner of the price sticker was still there. The cardboard was soft along the bottom seam from years of handling.
I squared it against the counter's edge.
I didn't remove the vinyl, but I thought about how I'd listen to it later.
I had a turntable tucked away in a closet.
It was a well-meaning gift from a friend who insisted that it was excellent for converting vinyl collections to digital, but it was functional as a normal record player too. Plug it into speakers and go.
The only problem was I didn't have a vinyl collection. I tucked it away, thinking I might hear of someone who needed it for precisely that type of project.
Morning skate was in two hours. I pulled the uncooked chicken and carrots out of the refrigerator.
The text I sent before bed stared at me from my phone's screen.
Pratt: Knock when you're ready.
There was no reply. I hadn't expected one. The message didn't ask for an immediate response.
I put the chicken on the heat with a little olive oil, and the carrots landed in the air fryer. My rice was already cooked.
I crossed over to the living room.
I'd already folded the throw on the back of the couch. I refolded it. Sully had pulled it down and put it over his lap when he told me about Bryan. The throw pillows were already where I kept them. I moved one a quarter inch and then moved it back.
The two books on the side table sat stacked the way I had left them. I straightened the stack.
In the bathroom, I refolded the hand towel. The mirror and counter were clean.
The entire condo was how I preferred it. It was ready for surprise visitors while still being comfortable enough for daily life.
A timer went off in the kitchen. I went back, plated the food, and ate without sitting down.
Sully's door was still quiet when I left. He was either still sleeping, or he was waiting.
I was the first player on the ice. I made my two passes, set my edges, tapped both posts, and my day collapsed down to the size of a puck.
Coach ran a structured session. He put us through three blocks of drills, but we didn't scrimmage. Forwards came up the ice in waves, and the defense collapsed back to meet them. Holt was paired with Rook on the left side. It worked.
Kieran came down the right wing on the first rep and dropped the puck back to Cross. He fed Varga at the dot. The shot came glove-side. I stopped it.
"Again."
This time it was cleaner. I directed a rebound into Heath's stick at the half-wall.
"Again."
Faster. Kieran adjusted his entry and pulled wide before passing to Cross. The shot came from a different angle. I tracked it and let it hit me chest-high.
We ran it again with the forwards rotating across to the weak side. Three of them pushed high. Two collapsed down the boards. Holt held his man without over-committing. Rook closed the gap behind him without making a show of it. The puck came to me. I had the angle.
"Stop."
Coach skated to the dot.
"Holt. That read. You don't sell out on it. You stay on the inside lane and let Rook close. Make sure Pratt can see. Run it."
We ran it.
In the locker room, Varga was already in the middle of a story. "—and I'm telling you, the linesman looks at me, I look at him, and the ref is twenty feet away with his back turned. The linesman shrugs at me. Shrugs. Like, what do you want me to do?"
"Buffalo," Cross said, without lifting his head.
"Buffalo," Varga confirmed. "Three years ago. Maybe four. Doesn't matter. Point is, the ref never saw it. Never. To this day, the linesman walks the earth a free man."
"You scored on the play," Rook said from his stall. He did not look up.
"I scored on the play," Varga agreed. "Which is the only reason the story is funny."
Cross sat with his elbows on his knees. He didn't laugh.
I went to my stall and stripped off my gear. I racked it up and sat for a beat with my hands on my knees.
Heath dropped onto the bench beside me, half-undressed, a towel around his neck.
"Tell Sully when you see him next, the laser tag offer is still open."
I turned.
"You saw him?"
"We stopped in at Carver's yesterday. We were going to ask you, but those reporters had you pinned down. Sully didn't commit to the laser tag, but the offer is still there."
Heath spoke in his normal tone. He didn't say we like him or let us know if you guys are good. He just made it clear that they thought Sully was now a normal part of our lives.
"I'll tell him."
"Cool."
He stood, tapped the back of his knuckles once against my shoulder, and crossed to his stall.
In the parking garage, I sat with the keys in my hand and ran the day forward. Game in nine and a half hours. Nap window between four and five. Arena at five-thirty.
The condo was as I had left it. I stood at the counter for a moment with my hands flat on either side of the album cover.
Then I pulled out my phone and took a photo.
I framed the shot looking down. I checked for glare and adjusted a quarter turn until the light from the window stopped catching across the cardboard.
I sent the photo to Sully without text.
While waiting, I sliced an apple. I had eaten half of it when the phone buzzed.
Sully: that's the one he bought for a quarter
I read it twice.
The message was in lowercase without punctuation. That was Sully texting from inside himself. The bartender's voice used capitals and exclamation points.
I considered responding. The instinct was to ask. Are you home? Did you sleep? or Do you want me to come over? They would all require an instant response. I gave Sully space.
I went to the bedroom and changed into a grey t-shirt and black joggers. I laid out the arena suit for later.
In the living room, I put on a Premier League replay from the night before. It was Liverpool against Brighton. I had not seen it live, and I had avoided seeing the score.
I stretched out sideways on the couch with my sock feet at the far end.
I had picked up Premier League from Varga. He had been on a Tottenham run two seasons back and would not stop talking about it.
Tottenham didn't hold my interest, but Liverpool did. The pace of the games was the part that had hooked me. They had two halves that totaled ninety minutes. They didn't blow whistles every thirty seconds, and commercial breaks didn't interrupt play.
I had not told anyone on the team that I watched it.
Sully heard the TV through the wall a few times and asked once what I had on.
I said soccer and watched him decide whether to follow up.
He said nothing but went back into his condo and put on something with a laugh track loud enough to make a point.
Brighton scored in the eleventh minute.
I watched the goal twice: the live angle and the replay from behind the net. The keeper had committed too early. It pulled him away from a low shot at a tight angle. It was the kind of goal that, in hockey, would have me on the bench before the next puck drop.
When I settled in for my nap, Sully's condo remained quiet. I already had my eyes open when the alarm sounded at five.
***
In the tunnel before warmup, Kieran fell in beside me.
"Something happened with Sully," I said.
Kieran didn't break stride.
"It's not about me."
"Okay."
That was the entire response. A trainer pushed past us with a tape gun. Kieran turned toward me as we reached the locker room door.
"You doing alright in there?"
It could have been concern from a friend or checking to make sure I was in the game. Probably both.
"I think so," I said. "Haven't finished my read on it yet."
"No rush."
He went through the door first. I gave him three steps and followed.
***
The anthem played. I stood at the top of my crease with my helmet down and my skate edges square to the blue line. The first verse didn't register. It was always the second that pulled me in. I held my breath through the last eight bars and let it out on the cymbal crash.
I tapped both posts with the heel of my stick, left first, then right, and dropped into my stance.
The puck dropped.
The first shift belonged to Carolina. They were a non-playoff team playing out the string, and a non-playoff team played out the string in one of two ways.
Some skated as if they were already on the beach.
Others skated like men who'd been told all year they were the problem and had three games left to prove otherwise.
We ran into the second kind.
They came at us hard on the forecheck. Their first line cycled the puck through Rook's corner and tried to throw it back to the point, where their defenseman was already moving down the wall.
Rook stepped up the second the pass left the boards, took it off the defenseman's stick before he had the puck flat, and chipped it to Cross at the red line.
Their first real chance came at four minutes in. They grabbed a turnover at our blue line, executed a quick give-and-go through the high slot, and their winger came down on me alone with his head up and his hands soft.
He waited for me to move. I didn't. He went for the backhand at the last possible second and tried to lift it past my pad. I was already there.
Rook arrived at the same moment as their forechecker and handled the situation by being three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. He moved the puck.
I took a breath and reset.
A non-playoff team was dangerous in the first period and harmless by the third if you didn't let them have a goal in the meantime. Preventing that goal was my only plan.
They tried high, and they tried low. They tried to put a man in front of me before a long shot from up top. Rook moved him before the shot left the stick. A man was left standing in front of nothing. The shot went wide. Heath cleared it.
The game was tied at zero in the break between the second and third periods..
Coach Markel walked through the locker room with his hands in his pockets, said we're fine, and walked back out.
Cross won the opening draw of the third period, and our line cycled into their zone. Kieran threw it across the slot to Varga, and Varga buried it. Our bench rattled their sticks. I tapped my left pad with the blocker—my acknowledgment of the goal.
They pushed back hard for the next four minutes. I saw eleven shots and got a piece of all of them. None of the rebounds allowed a second shot. The puck left my pads and died in the corners or came off my chest into Rook's stick.
Their best chance came at twelve minutes in. Their first line broke clean off a defensive-zone draw. They caught Holt in a two-on-one. Their winger was the better shooter, and he caught a pass.
I had read his stick before he had finished pulling it back. I gave him the high glove because the high glove was what he wanted. He aimed for it.
The puck arrived hard enough that the impact ran from the heel of my hand to my elbow. I held on.
The whistle blew.
Heath put us up 2–0 with thirty seconds to go. It was a trademark goal. Heath planted himself at the top of the blue paint with a defenseman's stick under his ribs.
The puck came in low. Heath didn't move his feet. He moved his stick four inches, and the puck was in the back of the net before their goalie had shifted his weight.
Their defenseman shoved Heath after the whistle. Heath looked at him and then turned and skated back to the bench.
We won, still in the playoff hunt. Cross hit my mask with his glove on our way off the ice. Heath tapped his blade against the side of my pad as he skated by.
I had twenty-four saves.
In the car, I checked my phone before starting the engine.
Sully: Good game.
Two words with a capital G and a period at the end.
I typed back.
Pratt: Thanks.
At the condo, I went directly to the counter. Then I walked to the hall closet. The turntable was on the middle shelf next to my condo-sized three foot tall Christmas tree, boxed until December.
I pulled out the turntable and ran a cable to my speakers. I picked up the album cover and tipped the record into my other hand.
The vinyl was matte black. It had a few faint surface marks under the kitchen light. The label was the original, orange and tan, with a small Reprise logo at the top.
I lowered the needle.
There was a soft pop on contact. Vocals began immediately, layered with drums and bass underneath.
I stood at the console with my hands at my sides. Halfway through the second track, I sat.
I was on the floor, back against the couch, knees up, forearms on my knees. It was where Sully had been when he shared his story. He'd reached his hand across the floor and held mine.
I was sitting on the floor of my condo, listening to a record a man I loved had heard a hundred times in a city halfway across the country. He'd left it at my door without knocking.
The first side ended, and the needle lifted. The arm returned to the rest.
I crossed the room, lifted the record, turned it over, and set the needle down again.
I didn't sit for side two. I went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and drank it while the music played. Listening to "Say You Love Me," I crossed over to the window and watched the river move.
When the song finished, it was twelve thirty-one am. I opened my door and stepped into the hallway.
A thin strip of light was visible under Sully's door.