Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
After the first two games of the season, Washington is first place in the league. Tied for first place — 2-0 is hardly unique — and two games in is certainly too early to judge how the season will go, but even so, undefeated feels good.
The Islanders are currently tied for last place in the league, among a fair number of other teams, including the Panthers. David’s adjusting from poor performance and poor attendance to a sold out arena and a winning team, and it occurs to him that Kiro, used to playing for Pittsburgh — currently tied in first with Washington — and the almost as intimidating Wilkes-Barre, is experiencing that in reverse.
David calls Kiro after the Panthers’ third game of the season. It was an overtime loss, at least, which means they aren’t tied for last anymore, but he imagines that isn’t much of a comfort.
“How is it?” David asks.
“How is what?” Kiro asks.
Losing, David doesn’t say, even if that’s what he’s asking, because that might sound like he was rubbing it in. “Things with the Panthers,” David says instead, which does, he supposes, encompass losing, but sounds less rude. “Still weird?”
“Less weird,” Kiro says. “I have decided that is actually just Parent’s face.”
David laughs. “Good,” he says. “I mean, not good that it’s his—”
“I know, Davidson,” Kiro says, then, brightly, “I cat proofed the apartment, so Emily is bringing Orange down this weekend.”
David hasn’t met Kiro’s cat, but he’s seen a number of pictures, which Kiro shares with as much excitement as Oleg shows pictures of his daughters. Possibly more. Orange is a black cat. David doesn’t understand Kiro at all sometimes.
“Cat proofed?” David asks sceptically. He understands baby proofing, but he doesn’t think cats can stick their fingers into sockets or fall down the stairs.
“Orange is a very clever cat,” Kiro says. “Also evil. If I do not cat proof, I have runaway cat bringing me dead animals, and then I am sad.”
David has no idea how someone can say ‘evil’ with so much affection.
“Well,” David says. “I’m glad your evil cat is coming?”
“Me too,” Kiro says cheerfully.
“Things with the Panthers are…good?” David says.
“All good,” Kiro says, and asks, “How are winning Capitals?” before David can figure out how to ask if Jake is being okay to him without sounding like he’s just asking to ask about Jake.
“Pretty good,” David says, meaning it.
“Understating it,” Kiro says.
“Probably,” David says, meaning that too.
*
They win their third game, still holding onto that perfect record, six perfect points. After the game, the bulk of the media goes to Crane first, since he recorded the shutout, then Quincy, then Martinique, +3 with two assists, then Oleg, then David. David had been uncomfortable with the idea of taking a shower, making himself unavailable for questions, so by the time they reach him, half the room’s showered, dressed, and David’s only stripped his pads.
Last season — all the seasons David played — the media would go to Oleg first, then David, unless they went to David, then Oleg. More talent to spread around here, David thinks, and feels guilty for it.
They ask the now typical question, how it feels to play for the Capitals, how it feels to win. “Good,” David says.
The perfect streak doesn’t last, but they don’t really falter either. They slip to second place, then third place. David thinks he’s meant to feel disappointed, like anything less than perfect isn’t good enough, but they’ve had only two regulation losses, one at home, one away, one overtime loss in Pittsburgh, who ended up snatching second from them on the basis of that single point. They have twenty-one points in thirteen games, and they may have slipped, but they’re only two points out of first place.
The team can’t sustain it. He knows they can’t sustain it, as much as he knew, at the start of his Art Ross season, that he couldn’t sustain the pace he set. And he was right about that, but it was still an Art Ross season. No team has ever had a perfect season, but every year a team wins a Stanley Cup. Perfection isn’t achievable, and that’s something David’s always known. A Stanley Cup is achievable.
He knows he’s being premature, knows that it’s barely November. But every year he’s played in the NHL, the hope was to make the playoffs if possible. Winning a round was a bonus, one the Islanders never achieved in his time there. The Capitals have made the playoffs four times in the last five years, gotten as far as the Conference Finals. Making the playoffs isn’t the end goal here. They have higher hopes.
The media may be talking to him less, or at least not going to him first, but there’s more media in Washington, more attention and a larger fanbase, and less isn’t not at all. He doesn’t love it, but then, he never has. He’s waiting for the day he gets through his press without a question about the Islanders — not necessarily naming them, but alluding to them in the comparisons they make. How does it feel to keep winning? How is it, playing with someone as solid as Crane in net? How is it with a D-pair as talented as Salonen and Martinique, do you feel more secure with them behind you? Always meaning: how is it, no longer playing for a terrible team?
“I’m enjoying it,” David always says, or variations of that.
“The Islanders are 25th place—” the next reporter starts, and David waits, yet again, for another question that boils down to ‘how is it, to play for a good team? How much do you appreciate no longer being an Islander? How much are the Islanders missing you?’
He’s so tired of answering those questions and pretending he doesn’t understand what they’re really saying.
“It’s funny,” Dave had said to him during his rookie season.
“What’s funny?” David had asked.
“You always seem to know what the media is really asking,” Dave had said.
“Why is that funny?” David had asked, but now he gets it, because it’s probably the only time he’s sure what someone’s asking him.
He’d really like them to stop.
*
David likes the Capitals.
Obviously, he likes playing for them. He likes winning. He likes having defensive support, he likes having a goaltender who is able to turn the tide of a game by himself. He likes the Capitals, of course he does.
But he likes the players too. Not all of them, certainly not all of them, but he feels like they’re — nicer isn’t really the word. They feel like more of a team, like it felt for David with the Remparts, even with the language barrier.
He feels awkward asking Oleg about it, especially because Oleg was the captain of the Islanders. David’s worried he’d take a question about it as a slight to his abilities as a captain, but he thinks if he noticed, Oleg must have.
It comes out wrong, when he says it. “The Capitals feel like more of a team,” he says to Oleg over a post-practice lunch, and he wants to take it back immediately.
“Better team?” Oleg asks.
“No, just—” David should probably quit before he makes it worse, but it isn’t that they’re better. Or, maybe it is, maybe everyone’s in better moods because they’re winning, that’s entirely possible, but that’s not all of it. “They feel like a team,” David says. “To me.”
Oleg doesn’t say anything, takes a bite of his food, chews, while David wonders, again, if he’s said something awful.
“I am glad,” Oleg says.
“About?” David asks.
“That they feel like team to you,” Oleg says.
“Well, they’re my team,” David says.
“Yes,” Oleg says, then nothing else, and takes another bite while David frowns at him.
*
Ever since the lunch in Hartford, Lombardi’s been especially friendly towards him. Not that he hadn’t been friendly from the beginning. But lately he’ll find David in practice or the locker room to make small talk, double check that David’s going out with the team after the game. He’s a little loud, kind of nosy, sort of…rude. He seems more like the kind of friend that Jake would have, but maybe that’s not fair. David doesn’t know many of Jake’s friends.
“Chaps, drinks at the Rooftop after the game?” Lombardi asks. “Quincy’s buying.”
Quincy gives Lombardi the finger, but doesn’t deny it.
They’re up 2-0 after the first, but there’s no way of knowing what the final score will be, so David thinks that planning drinks is a little premature. Cocky.
“Where’s that?” David asks. “Arlington?”
“Yeah,” Lombardi says.
“I think I’ll stick around Washington tonight,” David says. “Maybe another time.”
“Stick around?” Lombardi asks. “You got somewhere else in mind?”
“Not really,” David says. “Probably just heading home.”
“Wait, do you actually commute to Virginia?” Lombardi asks, sounding incredulous.
“I don’t drive,” David says, waiting for Lombardi to say something about that. He knows it isn’t exactly common — usually the only ones on the team who don’t drive are rookies in the process of getting their full licences, and they tend to be living with someone who does. “So I need to live somewhere central.”
“Fair,” Lombardi says. “You checked stuff out?”
“What do you mean?” David asks.
“Like, you’re in DC, right?” Lombardi asks and David nods.
“Where you at?” Lombardi asks, and David hesitates, but it seems ridiculous not to tell him.
“So like, a block away, cool,” Lombardi says. “You scouted shit out yet?”
“I mean, I’ve walked around,” David says. “If that’s what you mean.”
“Want me to give you the grand tour?” Lombardi asks. “Like, not the tourist bullshit, but what’s actually worth your time.”
“If you don’t mind,” David says. “That would be nice.”
“Sure thing,” Lombardi says. “Friday sound good to you?”
“Fine, thank you,” David says, and then, “Thanks, Lombardi.”
“Hey, none of that shit,” Lombardi says. “Robbie.”
“Thanks, Robbie,” David says.
“Sure, Davie,” Robbie says.
“I don’t — David,” David says.
“Okay, Davie,” Robbie says, and laughs when David frowns at him. “David, fine.”
David has a few bookmarked pages about good places to eat, but he’s unsure if they’re what Robbie would have under the ‘tourist bullshit’ umbrella. He’d feel weird asking, but he checks them before bed that night, tries to memorise the names, see if any of them are places Robbie recommends. Some of them look…indulgent. He thinks Robbie, who undoubtedly has a nutrition plan, will be a better guide. Hopes so, at least.
*
Sometimes Oleg will text him before practice, and David will go meet him at that breakfast place. Sometimes he won’t. Thursday morning he does, so David cancels the driver he has scheduled to take him to the rink, grabs one of the cabs huddled outside a hotel down the block.
Kiro’s sent him a new series of pictures. He’s been sending a lot of them since Orange arrived, and one of the latest is Orange curled up on a Capitals jersey, blocking every letter of the name but CH.
Where did you even get that jersey? David sends.
Emily! Kiro sends back within minutes. The Panthers must have practice this morning too, or Kiro would be sleeping in. Can I put cat loving you on Instagram?
Cat shedding on me. David replies, then, Sure. He’s sort of curious what kind of ridiculous thing Kiro will caption the photo with this time.
Oleg’s figured out approximately how long David takes, David thinks, or he’s just canny, because when David arrives his tea and sandwich are waiting for him, both still hot.
“Thanks,” David says, sliding into the chair across from him. “You don’t have to always buy—”
“It is ten dollars,” Oleg says, rolling his eyes.
“Still,” David says, but doesn’t push it.
“Maria wanted to know if you would like to come over for dinner tomorrow night,” Oleg says, then, “the girls will be at a sitter.” David wonders if it’s obvious that he’s not comfortable around them — they’re not as loud or high energy as a lot of kids, but he’s always afraid they’re going to want to play with him if he’s at Oleg’s, and he’s not really sure what little girls like to play.
Oleg loves his daughters — they’re the only subject he’s willing to talk about at length if anyone asks, except maybe strategy, and David wonders if Oleg is mad or disappointed or something that David hasn’t taken an interest in them. He hopes not. It’s nothing about them in particular. David’s never really sure what to say to kids unless it’s about hockey.
“I can’t, sorry,” David says. “Lombardi said he’d show me around downtown.”
David isn’t really sure how he expected Oleg to react, but he certainly didn’t expect the smile Oleg flashes at him.
“What?” David asks.
“Another time, then,” Oleg says, then, after a sip of coffee, “Have fun.”
“Don’t wink at me,” David says warily, and Oleg laughs and then proceeds to do just that.