Page 26 of Blind Side
Kieran found me in the equipment room.
He wasn't looking for me—or if he was, he'd never admit it. He walked in carrying his chest protector, set it on the bench, and started checking the straps like he did with all of his gear. I was re-taping my stick.
We worked in silence for three minutes—goalie silence, the comfortable silence that didn't need filling.
"You went quiet on the trip," Kieran said, not looking up. His hands worked the strap buckle.
"I'm always quiet."
"It's different, Abbott." It was the same observation Jamie had made the first night of the trip in the hotel room. Everyone around me was noticing the same thing and I was pretending I couldn't see it. "Something happened."
I set down the tape. "Denver made a formal offer. Starter. Two years, three and a half million."
Kieran's hands stopped on the strap. He looked up at me, understanding exactly what those numbers meant. Kieran Walsh knew, better than anyone, what a goalie was worth.
"That's a real offer," he said.
"It is."
"Are you going to take it?"
"I don't know."
He went back to the strap and checked it. He set the chest protector down and stood there for a moment.
"Remember," he asked, "I told you not to decide for the wrong reasons?"
"I remember."
"I'm going to ask you a question. I don't need an answer right now. Actually, I don't want an answer right now." He looked at me. "What are you waiting for him to do?"
The equipment room was very quiet. I could hear the Zamboni running on the practice rink, muffled through the walls. I could hear my own breathing.
"I'm not waiting for anyone to do anything."
Kieran's mouth curled into an almost smile. On Kieran Walsh, that constituted an entire emotional speech.
"Okay," he said. He picked up his chest protector and walked toward the door. He stopped.
"Abbott."
"Yeah."
"He's not going to ask." Kieran said it without turning around. "He's never going to ask. That's not how he's built. If you're waiting for that, you'll wait forever."
He walked out. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I sat in the equipment room for a long time. I held my stick in my hands and looked at the tape I'd just wrapped and thought about Kieran's question.What are you waiting for him to do?The answer was exactly what Kieran had said.
I was waiting for Jamie to ask. To say something, do something, to show me what I'd seen on his face in the hotel room. I was waiting for proof.
I was waiting for permission.
But Jamie Hayes didn't ask for things. He took care of people and made sure nobody was isolated. He put mugs on shelves for people who didn't live in his apartment—and he never, ever, in his entire life, asked anyone for what he wanted.
I was waiting for a man to do something he was incapable of doing.
The waiting itselfwasmy decision. I was choosing. I was sitting still—the way I always did, letting inaction masquerade as patience.
