8. KAI #2
"I went to the facility today and watched practice from the observation deck."
Her tone shifts into something warmer. "How was that?"
"I spent twenty minutes yelling at the glass, calling plays and pacing like I was running a bench."
I lean my head against the back of the couch. The ceiling is blank and white. "Nobody could hear me."
She's quiet.
"Then I went to the locker room. They call me Cap. They tell stories I'm supposed to be part of. Wyatt does impressions of things I've apparently said and everyone laughs and I just sit there nodding like I'm in on it."
"Kai, you went to the rink two days after getting discharged," she says finally. "Your doctor said rest."
"My doctor said a lot of things."
"And you ignored all of them. Shocking." A soft laugh comes through the phone. "That's either incredibly dedicated or incredibly stubborn."
"Both."
"Kai, listen to me." Her voice steadies. "You watched practice today and your instinct was to lead. To fix what you saw wrong. You did that without a jersey, without skates, without anyone asking you to. That's not hockey. That's you."
"It's the same thing."
"It's not. Hockey is the place where people see it. But the thing itself, the part that reads a room and knows what's missing and steps in to fix it, that's just who you are. You'd do that on the ice or in a boardroom. You did it in the hospital. I watched you manage your own parents."
"I didn't manage my parents."
"You told your mother to go home and sleep because she looked tired. You told your father to stop interrogating the doctors and let them work. You reorganized the entire visitor schedule so Mira could still go to her job. You did all of that from a hospital bed with a brain injury."
I don't have a response to that.
"Hockey is what you do, Kai. It's not who you are."
I press my phone harder against my ear. Her voice fills the quiet apartment in a way that the silence couldn't.
"When did you get this wise?" I ask.
"I've always been this wise. You just forgot."
"Low blow."
"You can take it."
"Have you eaten today?"
"I had coffee."
"Coffee isn't food, Kai."
"It's a beverage."
"Beverages don’t count. What's in your fridge right now? And don't say condiments."
“What is a condiment?”
A long sigh comes from the other end of the line. “Don’t tell me you don’t know something that simple.”
I laugh, glancing toward the kitchen. "Mira stocked the fridge. There's stuff in there."
"Stuff. Very specific and nutritious." Her voice turns teasing. "Open the fridge right now. I want an inventory."
"You want me to read you my fridge contents over the phone?"
"I want to know you're not surviving on protein bars."
I get up, walk to the kitchen, and open the fridge.
"Eggs. Some vegetables. Leftover pasta. Orange juice. Something in a container I can't identify."
"Don't eat the mystery container. Throw that out immediately."
"It could be fine."
"It could also be from before your accident. That container has seen things, Kai. Let it go."
I pull it out, sniff it, and put it directly in the trash. "Done."
"Now make the eggs."
"I'm on the phone with you."
"Phones have speakers. Eat something real or I'll call Mira and tell her you're starving yourself two days post-discharge."
"That's a threat."
"That's a promise. I have her number. She gave it to me in the hospital. We text now. We're practically best friends."
"You and my sister text?"
Ava texts my sister, but I don't get a single message?
"Mostly about you. Don't worry, it's very flattering." A pause. "She says you always skip meals when you're fixated on something. She told me about a playoff run where you forgot to eat for a full day and passed out during morning skate."
"That happened once."
"Once is enough. Scramble the eggs, put something green in them. I'll wait."
I crack two eggs into a pan, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder.
She stays on the line, quiet while I cook.
She fills the silence with small comments about Biscuit, her dog she told me about, trying to eat a sock and a client who wants a bathroom painted the exact color of "the ocean at sunset, but not too blue. "
"That's not a color," I say, pushing the eggs around.
"I told her that. She sent me forty-seven Pinterest photos. Forty-seven, Kai. I counted every one."
"Did you find the color?"
"I found six that were close enough and told her they were all the ocean at sunset. She picked the cheapest one. They always pick the cheapest one."
I close my eyes. The tension in my shoulders loosens by a fraction, which is more than anything else has managed today.
"Come to the penthouse."
"Kai."
"Not for what you think. Not to pick up where the hospital left off. I just..." I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. "The apartment is too quiet. Everything in it belongs to a version of me I can't reach. You're the only person who talks to me like I'm the one who's actually here."
She doesn't answer for a long time.
"Your sister's there?"
"She's out getting groceries. She'll be back soon."
"This isn't..."
"It's not. I promise."
Another pause. I hear Biscuit bark once in the background. Then rustling. A zipper.
"If you try to kiss me again, I'm leaving."
"Understood."
"And I'm bringing my dog."
"Fine."
"And I'm not staying late."
"Whatever you want, Ava."
"Stop being agreeable. It's unsettling."
I almost smile. "See you soon."
The line goes dead. I set the phone on the cushion beside me and look around the penthouse. The photo on the wall. The clean furniture. The wide, empty rooms that echo.
Somewhere between the hospital and this couch, the question shifted.
It used to be: When do I get back on the ice?
Now there's a second one underneath it that's harder to answer:
Who am I while I wait?
I don't know yet. But soon, someone who might help me figure it out is walking through that door.
I get up and check if there's anything worth offering her in the fridge.
There isn't.
I order takeout instead.