Page 13 of Before the Fire
"Dead. Yes. My legs are dead."
"Same," I say, and mean it.
Novák leans back in his chair and looks at the three of us. "First practice. NHL. We are still here." He raises his water bottle. We raise ours. Not a toast, exactly. More of an acknowledgment. We made it to lunch.
After we eat, Davis says something about Volkov and Fontenot's drill work not clicking.
"What about them?" I ask.
Davis and Novák exchange a meaningful glance but I don't know what it means. Novák says, "History. From before."
"Hockey history?"
"Something like that." Novák takes a drink of his water and offers nothing further.
I let it go because whatever it is, it's not about their skating, and their skating is the part that's my business. Plus my phone is buzzing in my pocket and I already know who it is.
I find a quiet corner of the hallway and call her back.
"Samuel." My mom's voice is the same as it's been every day of my life, warm and slightly worried and speaking English with the vowels she brought from Munich that she's never lost. "How is your first day?"
"Good. The skating is next level. There's a guy from Quebec whose acceleration is insane, and the center, Ryan Asher, runs the ice like he can see three seconds into the future."
"That's wonderful. Have you made any friends?"
I look back toward the cafeteria, where Davis is clearing trays and Novák remarking to Hájek in a way that makes him cough up his drink.
"I think so?" I say. "Yeah. I think I have."
Chapter 10: Novák
Berger corners me at the coffee station on day four with the energy of a man who has been waiting to share classified information.
"You've noticed Leclerc," he says. Not a question.
"The staring."
"The staring." Berger leans against the counter and grins. He is Swiss, which means he speaks four languages fluently, which means he understands every sidebar conversation going on at any given moment of the day. This means he is the most dangerous man in this building and he knows it. "He was doing it to Campbell yesterday. Campbell looked like he was drafting a will."
"What is he saying?"
"Yesterday? A parking garage. The one near his apartment. The entry ramp is too steep and he scraped the underside of his car." Berger takes a sip of his coffee. "The day before that, he was telling Soucy about a Netflix show. A cooking competition. He was furious about the elimination in episode four."
"And the staring?"
"Incidental. He just looks wherever he looks. He doesn't realize he's doing it."
I process this. Leclerc, the physical defenseman from Gatineau who plays with an edge that makes opposing forwards rethink their career choices, is terrorizing his own teammates by accident while passionately discussing parking ramps and reality television. In French. While staring.
"This is the best thing anyone has told me," I say.
"I know," Berger says. "You're welcome."
I file it away. Information is a resource, and Berger is a generous supplier. He drifts off to narrate someone's morning to them, which is a thing he does, and I take my coffee to the bench outside the training room where the “rooks” have started gathering between sessions.
Four days in and our table has become a fixed point. Not because anyone declared it. Davis and Mueller started it on day one, Hájek and I landed there because we needed somewhere to sit, and now it's just where we congregate. The cafeteria, the bench by the training room, the hallway near the equipment room after afternoon skate. We are the youngest, newest, greenest people here. And no one lets us forget it. So we band together by circumstance.
Mueller is already on the bench, icing his knees and studying game film on his phone. Davis is next to him, not talking, both of them comfortable in a silence that I've noticed they share easily. Hájek arrives last, carrying a banana and wearing the expression of a man who has just survived a traumatic event.
