Page 79 of Breakaway
"They think I'm depressed."
"What do you think?"
"I think they're worried. They might not be wrong. They showed up at my place to talk with me." I look at the plant on thewindowsill. The brown-edged leaf. "Your plant is overwatered, by the way. The leaf curl is from too much direct sun, but the soil is way too damp for that pot size. You want to let it dry out between waterings."
"I appreciate that." Her face is steady. She does not smile. She does not not smile. "You mentioned on the phone you moved here last summer from Miami for the Firebirds. Tell me about the transition to Atlanta."
"It's been fine. I was traded in the expansion draft last summer. New city, new team. Standard adjustment." I gesture at the office. "Your waiting room is a five-four. The mountain print is dragging it down. But the office is better. Six-one. The plant saves it, assuming it survives."
"You rate everything?"
"It's a system. Restaurants, hotels, coffee. Keeps things organized."
"How's the hockey side?"
"Good. I feel good on the ice. Getting minutes. The coaching staff has clear expectations."
"And off the ice?"
"Fine. Found some good restaurants. The barbecue is excellent. Cuban food, not close to Miami, but you can't have everything."
She writes nothing. The pen has not moved since I sat down. The silence between her last question and my answer was half a second. The silence after my answer stretches longer.
"Your teammates showed up at your apartment," she says. Not a question.
"They brought soup."
"That's a significant gesture."
"They're good guys. Avi and Ash. My captains."
"Why do you think they were worried enough to come to your apartment?"
"I missed a practice. An optional practice." I shift in the chair. The gray fabric is softer than it looks. "Look, I don't want to waste your time. I know you're busy. I'm here because they asked me to be here and I said I'd come. I came."
"You did. You're here." She lets that sit. "Is there anyone else in your life who's been worried about you? Outside of your captains?"
The question is asking about a person. The question is asking about a relationship. The question is asking me to open up about something I haven’t whispered in three years.
There is a small pride flag on the bookshelf behind her. The rainbow glasses. The purple hair. The building on Juniper Street. None of these things mean I have to answer the question.
"There's someone," I say.
"Someone close to you?"
"Yeah."
She waits.
"He's." I stop. Start again. "There's a person. Yes. He's been worried."
"He?"
"Yeah." I look at the pride flag on the bookshelf. It is the size of a playing card, propped against a row of books. "He."
The word is in my head. Gay. I am a gay man sitting on a grey couch in an office on Juniper Street and I have said "he" and I have not said the rest. The rainbow glasses and the flag and the building itself are telling me I could say it. But this office doesn’t get the rest today. Today the office gets "he" and that is what I have.
"Does he live in Atlanta?"
