Chapter 5 #2
Not a Copperheads face. Not equipment staff, or not the usual equipment staff.
He was slight, younger than me, with dark eyeliner drawn carefully under each eye and a smear of what I think was concealer over a faint mark on his jaw.
His hair was short and dark red, and he had a Copperheads lanyard that had SHARPENING on a paper insert in the name slot, which meant someone hadn't gotten him a real badge yet.
He was wearing gloves with the fingers cut out, the kind that made sense if you were doing repetitive fine-work with your hands.
He saw me and pulled the cart short. "Sorry. I didn't see you coming."
"It's fine." I adjusted my grip on the crutch. "You're new."
"Ish." He looked at the crutch, then at Sable, then back at me. "I’m Kyle. I sharpen skates for the team. My dad's Bob, the equipment manager.
"Chip," I said. "I play here. Well, usually, but not right now.”
“Your dog is beautiful."
"Thank you," I said, and he smiled. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
I moved past the cart and left him to it. Maybe when I was used to him I’d be able to talk more, but right now I wanted to meet up with my friends.
The Filament Coffee Shop was three blocks from the arena and nine blocks from my normal coffee shop, Mabel’s, and that distance, for me, was the entire point.
The neon was the first thing you noticed and the second thing and the third thing.
A pink coil along the top of the windows that spelled out FILAMENT in script.
A blue tube running along the inside length of the bar.
A loop of warm yellow above the espresso machine in the shape of an Edison bulb, except it was neon shaped like an Edison bulb, which was a joke.
The walls were a dark teal. The booths were leather.
There was music playing, something with a good rhythm.
The espresso machine was loud, and the staff wore black.
A chalk sign hung behind the counter listing five drinks I had never heard of and one drink I had under the heading WE ALSO DO COFFEE, which was, again, a joke.
I had picked The Filament because it was close and open late, because Walker had once mentioned in passing that their Americano was “fine,” and because I had never been there with the art guys.
The art guys went to Mabel’s, where I went, where the booths were green vinyl, the coffee was burned, the woman behind the counter knew me by my drink order, and the lighting was a soft yellow ceiling fixture that didn’t buzz, flicker, or hum.
The Filament’s neon hummed. I could feel it in my teeth a little, in a way I was choosing not to mind tonight.
I sat down in the booth last because Sable had to make a circle to find a flat spot on the floor and because I didn’t want to have to climb past Tim to get to a seat.
The booth was a corner U-shape, so I ended up next to Dane, with Courtney across from me and Morgan at the other end.
Sully was next to Morgan, and Tim was on the outside.
Sully was nursing a black coffee. Morgan had a hot chocolate, of all things.
Courtney had ordered a flight of espressos because the menu offered one.
Tim was eating a second pretzel, which he’d brought with him from the arena.
Dane had ordered me a decaf without asking. It was already in front of me as I slid into the booth.
“You said decaf at the station,” he said. “Was that a one-time decaf or a Chip-drinks-decaf decaf?”
“Chip-drinks-decaf-after-four-PM decaf.”
“It’s 5:41.”
“Then we’re good.”
He smiled into his own cup. Black coffee. Two sugars, which I had watched him put in. He stirred clockwise three times, then once counterclockwise, to break the foam, which I didn’t believe was a deliberate sequence, but I noticed it because I was staring at his hands.
“Caffeine reaches your brain in about five minutes,” I said. “And it peaks in your bloodstream between thirty and sixty minutes.”
“I didn’t know that,” Dane said and glared at Tim, who was grinning.
“So that was actually fun,” Morgan added, leaning back, trying to change the conversation, I think. “Most sports give you time to lose track. That sport does not.”
“Hockey players score about three goals a game, league average,” I explained. “At our level, 2.8. Tonight was five, which is well above average, in case you were wondering whether that was normal.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” Tim said with a mouth full of pretzel.
“I was,” Courtney said. “Thanks.”
I had been at coffee with the team after games more times than I could count.
The art guys, mostly: Walker, Arnaud, Taft, Bob, and of course Finn, in the green booth at Mabel’s, with the burnt coffee, with the yellow ceiling fixture.
I knew the rhythm there. I knew what people would order and what people would say and which jokes would go around and at what point Walker would put his hand on the back of Finn’s neck without looking at him and how Finn leaned into him and stayed there.
I didn’t know the rhythm here.
The firefighters talked over each other in a way the art guys didn’t.
They moved their hands when they made a point.
Tim interrupted Morgan twice in three minutes, and Morgan shut him down both times without breaking sentences.
Then Courtney told a story that was four sentences too long and ended with a punchline I missed because I was watching Dane laugh.
Dane laughed all big, and I’d never seen anyone laugh that fully at a story I’d missed.
I made a note to ask Courtney to tell it again later when I could pay attention.
Sable leaned against my shin. I dropped my hand and put it on her head.