Chapter 6 The Second Chair
The Second Chair
Liam
The elevator hummed as it climbed, too slow for how fast my thoughts were moving.
I like my space. My solitude.
It’s why I bought this condo. Why I chose the unit on the top floor with no neighbors overhead and only one unit to the side. Why I didn’t bother putting a chair on the balcony until last year.
It took longer than I expected to find a chair that felt right. There was only one left, and I still remember the salesman’s surprise when I told him that a single chair was all I needed.
This condo, this sanctuary, was mine. Quiet. Predictable.
And it’s not like she’s going to be here that long.
I shifted the grocery bag in my hand, four cartons of milk bumping awkwardly against each other. Almond. Oat. Two percent. Cream.
The coffee was already prepped. She took it with milk.
The elevator dinged. I shifted the bag again and caught my reflection in the mirrored panel. One hand full of milk, the other balancing three more grocery bags against my side. I looked like a rookie trying too hard. Which, maybe, I was.
I hoped she was still asleep. My plan was simple. Slip in. Unload the milk. Get my coffee. Step onto the balcony before she stirred. I needed ten minutes of normal. Of silence. Of just me.
The door slid open.
I stepped into the apartment.
And there she was. My breath caught.
Claire stood barefoot at the counter, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other braced against the edge. Her hair was pulled back in some efficient twist, neat and low. Morning light spilled across the glass and softened everything it touched, including her.
She turned. Our eyes met.
For a beat, I just stood there. The bag in my hand felt too heavy to hold.
"I didn’t know what kind you liked," I said, moving toward the fridge, trying to sound casual. "So I got oat milk, almond, 2%, and cream."
It sounded absurd. Four milks for one woman. Overboard? Maybe. But her settling for black coffee? That wasn’t going to happen again.
She blinked. Her eyes flicked to the milk and then to me. A faint flush crept into her cheeks. She shifted her weight to one foot, fingers tightening just slightly around her mug. "I hope you didn’t go out just for me?"
I gave a half-shrug, setting the bag down and opening the fridge. “It’s just milk.”
She didn’t say anything right away. I glanced up again. She was still watching me, her face unreadable.
Then, something shifted. I saw it, her eyes darted, just slightly, like her brain was flipping through options. The hesitation. A faint crease between her brows. Then, a flicker.
"Thank you," she said at last. "I look forward to experimenting to see which one I like the most."
I busied myself with unpacking the rest of the bags while I let Claire choose her coffee creamer. It was just milk. Practical. Four kinds of milk for someone I barely knew.
My back was turned, but I could feel her behind me, still standing there. Still watching. I didn’t look. Just kept rearranging things in the fridge. Holding my breath. I opened and closed my jaw a few times, then rolled my shoulders back, slow and deliberate.
“Liam?”
Her voice was soft but clear, hesitant in a way that didn’t match her usual steady tone.
I turned just enough to catch her over my shoulder.
“I hate to bother you,” she said, still holding her mug, “but if you get a chance... could give me the name of the best place to order pizza from? For the girls, I mean.”
I froze for half a second.
I had promised that, didn’t I.
I don’t order pizza. Ever.
My brain was already cataloging flour, sauce, fresh mozzarella before I caught myself.
Would that sound weird? Would she think that was a red flag? A grown man who could hand-toss dough blindfolded but can’t recommend a local pizza place?
“Uh—sure,” I said. “I’ll leave you a note.”
My eyes went to the fridge.
Then, before I could stop, “Actually... better yet, just let me know what the girls like and what time you want it delivered. I can call.”
She blinked. Definitely surprised. A small crease formed between her brows, then smoothed into something else, almost a smile.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. I can just ask Arturo at the front desk.”
I looked at the fridge. Then at her.
“No, I don’t mind. Really. Just let me know.”
She hesitated and shifted her mug to the other hand.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Thank you.”
Then a pause.
She glanced toward the balcony, and then back at me.
“Listen, I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll give you your kitchen back. I’ll just... go out and finish my coffee. By the way, I’m really enjoying the almond milk.”
Almond milk. She’d picked one.
I nodded, managing a half-smile. “You’re welcome.” My eyes flicked to the balcony, then back to my empty coffee mug.
She slipped toward the balcony, bare feet soundless on the floor. Solitude would have to wait. For some reason, I didn’t mind.
Ice level. Cold air in my face. Nets set.
Mac gave me a nod as I passed him on the way to the locker room. “You good, man? You’ve got that ‘I just got drafted' grin on your face.”
I bumped his shoulder with my bag. “Just feeling it today. Let’s light it up.”
During stretch, Naks leaned over. “You’re usually ice cold in the mornings. New coffee? Or a new cooking book?”
I shook my head. “Neither. Just...good energy, I guess.”
I sat on the bench, laced my knee pads, then wrapped my legs in the chest protector like armor. Gloves go last. It’s the closest thing to a weapon I’ve got.
Once we hit the ice, the chatter started, friendly, quick.
“That pass had more wobble than my grandma’s Jell-O.”
“Nice shot, Mac. You aiming for the Zamboni or just clearing snow?”
The chirps continued to fly, half of them ridiculous, all of them familiar. Still, I chuckled. These guys battle hard in front of me. I can listen to these chirps on repeat.
I started with crease warmups, shuffle right, stop, butterfly, recover. Shuffle left, stop, slide post-to-post. I could feel the burn right away: inner thighs tightening, calves biting at me. Sweat was already forming under my helmet.
Then came the rapid-fire rebound drills.
Three shooters at different angles — low pad shots, blocker-side wristers, one sneaky backhand toward the five-hole.
My only job: control the rebound, kill the second chance.
I kick one out clean, it lands just outside the crease.
Shooter swipes at it, but I read the angle and cover with the glove.
Coach changes it up with wraparound scenarios.
I feel the puck whip around the boards, disappearing behind me for a split second.
I drop low and slam my outside leg flat against the post, toe flush to the ice.
My inside knee tucks underneath as I lean into the pipe, chest angled, shoulder sealed tight.
I press in, stick blade laid flat across the crease like a steel shield, guarding against any jam play.
I can hear skates carving behind me, but I’ve got every inch locked down.
Eyes locked, lungs steady. I’m balanced, coiled, ready to explode laterally if they try to wrap it.
We finish with power-play drills. Fast puck movement, screens in front, constant traffic. My crease is chaos. I battle to find the puck through three bodies, track the release, and make the low save with my pad.
Coach had us running a power play cycle, and I could hear laughs when I snagged Mac’s top-shelf attempt with my glove. “Bro’s got magnets in that mitt today,” someone shouted.
As we stepped off the ice, Mac tossed a Gatorade toward me. “Whatever mood you’re in, bottle it. We’ll need it in April.”
I walked out with my bag. AHL jerseys filing in for the 3 p.m. slot.
Good practice
Rebounds died, edges held, reads on time. Could’ve been sleep. Could’ve been the skate. Or the morning. Four milks for one person and her smile.
Doing something for someone flips a switch. We do hospital visits every season. There’s a reason. Guys come back looser, sharper.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment.
Quiet.
No sounds from the kitchen. No flicker of movement from the balcony. No one sided phone conversations.
I dropped my keys into the basket by the front door and drifted toward the balcony. I glanced through the glass. Looked left, then right.
I let out a breath then turned back to the kitchen.
A note waited on the counter, propped against the fruit bowl in her careful handwriting.
Off to babysitting. Apt 2804. I don’t have your cell number. Here is mine. Text me when you’re back. I can let you know our pizza order. Thanks again. C.
I picked it up. I read it twice. My mouth tugged at the corners.
I glanced at my watch. Still time.
Set the note back down and grabbed two of the reusable grocery bags from the cabinet. Opened the fridge and got to work.
Mozzarella. Basil. Marinara. Pre-portioned dough. I moved quickly, grabbing mushrooms, shredded chicken, pepperoni, bell peppers. Options. Kids liked options, right? Do five and seven year olds even eat mushrooms?
I tossed them in anyway.
From the drawer below the oven, I pulled out the small personal pizza pans and dropped them into another grocery bag. My hands moved quickly, automatically, like gearing up before a game, but my chest felt tighter than before a game.
I grabbed my phone from the counter and stood still for a second. Rolled my shoulders back. Took one deep breath, then another. No big deal.
Just saving the world from take-out, three people at a time. Okay, the fact that they're three people very important to my new coach has amped the pressure, just a little.
In the elevator, I shifted the bags in my hands and press the floor number.
Maybe I should’ve just asked Arturo for a good pizza place and called it a day.
The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out, bags in hand. I took a breath, steady, intentional, then walked to 2804 and rang the bell.
Muffled voices on the other side.
"Girls, don’t touch the door. I’ll get it," Claire’s voice called.