Chapter 6 #2
“Back to Leah's eventually. I was going to cut through the park.”
“The park's a good loop.” I said this and then stood there while my brain caught up to the implication of what I'd just said, which was that I knew the park loop, which was only useful information if I was about to suggest running it, which was—
“You want to come?” Hartley said, with the carefully neutral tone of someone who was also doing the math on this in real time. “I mean. If you're already running. Biscuit would probably behave better if she had someone to—” He stopped. Started again. “It doesn't have to be—”
“Sure,” I said, because apparently that was what my mouth had decided.
We both looked at Biscuit. Biscuit wagged.
“Great,” Hartley said, in the voice of a man who wasn't sure if this was great or not.
“Great,” I agreed, from the same place.
We started walking.
Not running, as it turned out, because Biscuit had opinions about pace that superseded both of ours, stopping every fifteen feet to investigate a leaf or a crack in the pavement or nothing visible to human eyes, and Hartley kept apologizing for this and I kept saying it was fine, and by the third time we'd both fallen into the rhythm of stopping when Biscuit stopped and moving when she moved, which was either companionable or ridiculous and was probably both.
“She's been doing this all morning,” Hartley said, watching Biscuit examine a section of fence with the intensity of a forensic investigator. “I've had her for three hours and I've aged four years.”
“How long does your sister usually leave her?”
“This is the first time. Leah got guilted into it by a very specific combination of the renovation and the double shift and also Biscuit's face.” He glanced sideways at me. “You've seen the face.”
“The face is effective,” I admitted.
“It's weaponized. Leah's been training her to make it on purpose.
I'm convinced of it.” He reached down and unclipped the leash when we cleared the gate into the park, and Biscuit immediately shot forward ten feet and then stopped, apparently satisfied by the principle of it.
“She does dog agility on Sundays. Biscuit, not Leah.
Although Leah's competitive enough that I wouldn't rule it out.”
“Agility,” I said.
“Competitive dog obstacle course racing. It's a whole thing. Leah sends me videos.”
“And?”
He paused. “Biscuit is extremely fast and has no respect for the concept of the designated route, which I'm told is a problem.”
I watched Biscuit veer off the path to investigate a tree, circle it three times, and then veer back without explanation. “I can see that.”
“Coach.” Hartley said it with the flat delivery of someone delivering an important truth. “She knocked over four cones in a row last week. On purpose. The trainer thinks she's doing it deliberately.”
“Is she?”
He looked at the dog. The dog looked at him. Something passed between them that suggested this was an ongoing negotiation. “Almost definitely.”
I started running again, easy pace, and Hartley fell in beside me naturally, Biscuit ranging ahead on the path with the enthusiastic lack of direction of an athlete who'd been told to just go out and play.
The park was quiet at this hour, a few other runners, a man reading on a bench with his collar up against the cold.
We ran for a bit without talking, which should've been awkward and wasn't, which was its own problem.
Hartley ran the way he skated—smooth, economical, like his body had worked out the most efficient version of every motion and defaulted to it automatically.
I was aware of this in the way I was aware of most things that were useful to not be aware of.
“You run every morning?” he asked.
“When I can. It clears the head.”
“Before or after the film review?”
“Before. The film review clears a different part of the head.”
He was quiet for a moment, the path curving around the far side of the pond. “What do you do if neither one works?”
I looked at him sideways. The question was casual but it wasn't. He was watching the path ahead, expression even, and I'd learned enough about how he deflected to recognize when a real question was wearing a casual one as a disguise.
“I work until it stops mattering,” I said, because that was the honest answer even if it wasn't a good one.
“Does that work?”
“Not really. But it's productive.”
He made a small sound that was almost a laugh. “My therapist would have thoughts about that.”
“Probably.”
“She has thoughts about most things I do.” He glanced at me. “Do you have one? A therapist?”
“I had one. A few years ago.” I kept my eyes on the path. “It was useful.”
“But you stopped.”
“It was a particular situation. The situation resolved.”
He didn't push, which I appreciated. Biscuit doubled back to check on us, circled my feet twice, and then took off again in what I was beginning to understand was her signature move—the inspection followed by the departure, like she was confirming we were still there before deciding she didn't need us after all.
“She likes you,” Hartley said.
“She likes everyone.”
We came back around toward the main gate, the loop closing, Biscuit trotting ahead with her leash trailing and the smug satisfaction of a creature who'd gotten what she wanted out of the morning. Hartley scooped it up without breaking stride, and we slowed as the gate came into view.
“This is me,” he said, nodding toward the street. “Leah's is back the other way.”
“Right.” I stopped, and he stopped, and Biscuit sat on my foot again immediately, like she'd been waiting for the opportunity. “Walk her at least once more before your sister gets home. Proper distance.”
He looked at the dog. The dog looked at him. “I know how to walk a dog, Coach.”
“You said it took forty minutes to go around the block.”
“Because she kept stopping.”
“That's not a walk. That's a negotiation.”
He pressed his lips together, and I could tell he was trying not to smile, which was a problem in the same category as the sweatpants and the peanut butter on his sleeve.
Biscuit chose this moment to stand up, shake herself thoroughly, and attempt to walk directly between my legs, which required me to take a significant step sideways and briefly grab the nearby fence for balance, which broke whatever was happening with something approaching mercy.
“Biscuit,” Hartley said, in the voice of a man at the end of his rope.
Biscuit wagged.
“Get her home,” I said, because I needed to finish this conversation before the part of my brain that was still functional stopped working entirely. “Feed her. Walk her again at noon.”
“Yes, Coach.” The smile was fully there now, warm and a little unguarded, the real version that I'd learned looked different from the one he used for cameras. “Thank you. For this.”
“We just ran.”
“Still.” He tugged Biscuit's leash gently in the direction they needed to go, and the dog came with him after one last look at me—assessing, patient, in the way of creatures who understood more than was convenient. “See you, Coach.”
“See you,” I agreed.
I watched him go for exactly as long as it took me to recognize that I was watching him go, at which point I turned around and started running back toward my apartment at a pace that was slightly faster than necessary for a man who'd already had a cinnamon roll and two miles on his legs.
The run home took eleven minutes.
I spent nine of them not thinking about Hartley. Tried not to anyway.
I needed to shower, but first I made myself deal with at least one box. A small step. A manageable commitment.
I grabbed the one labeled “personal” and immediately regretted it.
Old photos. Jerseys from my playing days. A framed picture of my parents at one of my games, both of them smiling like I'd just won them the lottery.
I pulled out a jersey from my rookie season and held it up. Number twenty-seven. A bottom-six grinder who'd made a career out of doing the unglamorous work nobody wanted. I'd been good at it. Not great. Not memorable. Just good enough to stick around for eight seasons before my body gave out.
I folded it and put it back in the box. No point dwelling on who I used to be.
Under the jersey was a knee brace—old-school, bulky, the thing I'd worn for my last two seasons after the cartilage in my left knee decided it was done cooperating.
I pulled it out and sat on the floor, holding it.
This was the evidence. The reason I'd retired at thirty-one instead of playing until my body completely fell apart. The reason I'd transitioned to coaching faster than most guys, because what else was I going to do? Hockey was the only language I spoke fluently.
The knee still ached sometimes. Cold mornings. Long days on my feet. A reminder that I'd pushed this body past reasonable limits and it had responded by breaking down piece by piece.
I should've thrown the brace away years ago. But I'd kept it—proof, maybe, that I'd earned my place in this world through pain and discipline and the ability to show up even when everything hurt.
I put it back in the box and kept digging.
More photos. Me with Cal at his fire academy graduation. Me with my parents at their anniversary dinner two years ago. A newspaper clipping from my last game, a small article, barely a hundred words, but someone had saved it.
Probably my mom.
I set the photos aside and found what I'd been avoiding: a folder of documents from three years ago. Performance reviews. Termination paperwork. The official statement from my last organization explaining why they'd decided to “pursue a different coaching direction.”
Corporate speak for: You fucked up and we're cutting our losses.
I opened the folder and read through the termination letter again, even though I'd memorized every word.
While we appreciate Mr. Sutherland's contributions to the organization, recent concerns regarding professional judgment and boundary management have led us to conclude that a separation is in the best interest of both parties.