Page 83 of Empty Net
"Then good."
He grins into his water bottle.
We win 4-2. I have two assists, one on an empty-net clearance that Jonah tries to call a "veteran dagger" until Cole tells him to stop workshopping headlines in public. My hip feels like a committee has convened inside it and voted unanimously against me. I play twenty minutes anyway. Callahan gives me the nod after the game. I nod back.
The old language still works.
Mostly.
In the trainer's room, I sit with ice on my hip while Katie wraps Cole's wrist. Cole's wrist has been an ongoing negotiation since January. He calls it fine, which means it hurts, which means Mik already knows and is pretending not to hover, which is the highest form of love in this building.
Cole sits on the next table, wrist extended, eyes on the far wall. We have been teammates for four years. We have killed penalties together, blocked shots together, sat through video sessions where Callahan used the word "structure" thirty-six times in twelve minutes. We have had maybe eleven conversations that were not strictly hockey. Twelve if you count the time he asked whether the biscotti on my shelf was Luca's and I said yes and he said "good."
Katie finishes the wrap and leaves to find more tape.
The room goes quiet.
Cole flexes his fingers once.
"You know you don't owe us a speech, right?" he says.
I look at him.
He does not look at me. He inspects the tape around his wrist like it has made a tactical error.
The sentence sits in the room. It sits with the ice machine hum and the smell of antiseptic and the towel under my right hip. It sits in the space where I have built fourteen seasons of explanations and apologies and defensive structures for a conversation nobody has started.
"What?" I say.
Bad response. Too late.
Cole glances over then. His face is open in the way Cole's face gets when he has decided honesty is less dangerous than politeness.
"Whatever you're carrying," he says. "You don't owe the room a speech about it."
The ice on my hip is suddenly too cold.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure."
One word. Mild. Annoying. Familiar.
He stands. Picks up his sweatshirt. "When Jamie told us, he needed a speech. It helped him. When Mik stopped pretending he wasn't looking at me like that, he didn't need one. People are different."
I cannot move.
Cole shrugs one shoulder. "Just saying. If you ever want to tell us anything, tell us. If you don't, you don't have to perform the whole thing because you think we expect it."
He walks to the door.
At the threshold, he adds, "Also, if this is not about what I think it's about, please forget I became emotionally competent for ninety seconds. I find it unsettling."
Then he leaves.
I sit with the ice on my hip and my hands flat on the table.
Cole knows.
