Chapter 19 — TEO
The locker room sounds like it always sounds, which is like fifteen conversations happening at once and none of them waiting for the last one to finish.
Davis went to Charleston for ASG break and will not stop talking about shrimp and grits.
M?kinen went back to Finland and brought everyone licorice that Hájek tried, made a face, and then tried again because Hájek gives everything a second chance.
Thompson went fishing somewhere and caught something he insists was enormous but for which no photographic evidence exists.
“The phone was in the boat,” Thompson says.
“The phone is always in the boat,” Mueller says. “Every fishing story you tell ends with the phone in the boat.”
“Because that’s where phones go when you’re fishing, Mueller. In the boat. Where the fish are.”
I’m lacing my skates and half listening and mostly thinking about how good it feels to be back in this room.
The break was fine. Jersey, nonna, my sisters, Parker FaceTiming with my mother who held the phone at an angle that showed mostly ceiling while Parker stared at the screen like she was being personally disrespected.
But this room is the thing I missed. And the person working down the hall.
Berger comes in while Fontenot is telling Hájek about some restaurant in Savannah. Berger drops his bag at his stall and opens it and starts pulling gear out without saying anything.
Davis asks him something about the break.
I don’t catch the whole question because Thompson and Mueller are still arguing about the fish, but I see Berger’s head turn toward Davis and I see his mouth form a word that might be “good” or might be “fine,” and then he’s looking at his gear again.
The one-word version of a man who usually takes paragraphs to say what a sentence could handle.
A minute later he stands up and walks out.
No explanation. No gear on. Just stands and goes, his bag still open on the floor, his phone sitting on the bench.
I know he’ll come back. He’ll rate the pregame coffee and the ice and everything else.
Maybe the break was just long and he’s tired and I’m making something out of nothing.
My shoulder rolls clean when I pull my jersey on.
Full rotation, no catch, no hesitation. Six months ago that motion had a ceiling, and now it just works smoothly.
Zay’s hands did that. He rebuilt something that was broken without ever making me feel like something that was broken.
And now we are down to sessions twice a week instead of three.
The reason I walk into that treatment room is disappearing and neither of us has said what happens when it’s gone.
We are playing Toronto and the arena is more packed than it was in October.
The expansion novelty wore off by November but something else replaced it.
Twenty-two games left and the Firebirds are sitting on the edge of a wild card spot that nobody predicted and everybody in this room is superstitiously not talking about.
The first shift of the game, I take a hit along the boards and my shoulder absorbs it and stays.
Six months ago that hit would have been an immediate pause, a check-in with my body to see if the joint held.
Now it’s just hockey. The contact registers and passes and I’m already moving, cutting toward the net, finding the lane between the defenseman’s stick and his partner’s skate.
The puck comes off Hájek’s tape and I get my stick on it in front and redirect it low and the net jumps and the horn goes and the bench erupts. Hájek crashes into me along the glass and his helmet clips my visor and he’s laughing, screaming something I can’t hear over the horn.
The second period, I take another shift where everything connects.
My legs are pushing hard enough, my hands quick enough, the instinct to go where it hurts.
A defenseman cross-checks me in the crease of the net and I don’t move.
Plant my feet. Take it. The whistle comes and Coach Bodie taps my helmet when I get back to the bench and says nothing, which from Coach Bodie is a standing ovation.
We’re up 3-1 in the third when Thompson points to the larger scoreboard during a TV timeout and notes a score. “Miami won.”
“Of course Miami won.” Mueller leans over to look. “They’ve won six of eight.”
“Mercy’s got twenty-two goals already,” Thompson says, scrolling. “He’s been unreal since before the break.”
“Who?” A forward named Mercy isn’t ringing a bell.
“Wesley Mercer. People call him Mercy. Ask Berger about him. I think they were roommates or something.”
The name hits my ear before my brain catches up to it.
Mercer. Mercy.
The elevator. Berger’s weight against my shoulder. His hand gripping my jacket. Asking for mercy.
Not a word. A name.
Mercy.
***
Zay comes over my apartment after the game. Parker asleep on the armrest, his hand on my knee while I sit on the couch and try to explain what my brain did hours ago.
"Mercer. There’s a guy on Miami’s team," I tell him. "His name is Mercer. But people call him Mercy."
Zay looks at me, eyes wide. "Mercy," he says softly, processing.
"Berger lived with him in Miami. I don't know the details but sounds like they were close. And in that elevator, I think that's what he was asking for. Not mercy, like, have mercy. Mercer. Like a person."
“Did you say anything to Berger?”
I shake my head. "Not to Berger. But I called Mercer."
"You already called him?" Zay’s hand rubs my knee, as if supporting me physically will help too.
"Got his number and called him after the game. Told him Berger might be going through something. He said he appreciated it and that he'd reach out. That was it. No questions, no comment. Nothing."
"Wow. That’s a lot.” Zay exhales through his nose. He looks up at the ceiling for a minute before looking back at me. “I don’t think you’re wrong. I was there. That wasn't a drunk guy saying random words."
"So what do I do now?"
"You already did it." His voice is soft. He squeezes my knee and leans towards me. "You called. What he does with it is up to him."
Parker's tail twitches once in her sleep and I reach over and pet her. Even in her sleep, the purring starts immediately.
"He didn't even ask what was wrong," I say.
"Maybe he didn’t know what to say to you. Doesn't mean he wasn’t listening."
"Maybe he already knows."
He looks at me. "Yeah. Maybe."
I lean into his side and he lets me, his arm adjusting, his body making room for mine the way it does now without either of us thinking about it. Muscle memory for the other person.
"I think it’s good you called Mercer," Zay says. "Since Berger won’t tell you what’s going on."
"He's my friend. I think he’d do the same for me."
"Maybe. Not everyone would."
"So?"
Zay's quiet. His fingers press into my knee again, then ease. "You just do that. Walk with both hands out trying to figure out how to help."
I turn my head enough to see his face. His jaw is set the way it gets when he's looking at something he's still making up his mind about. “Is that a bad thing?”
"It's an observation." His mouth does the thing. The almost-smile that doesn't quite commit. "I'm good at observations."
I settle back against him and close my eyes and hold onto what I can.