Page 40 of Empty Net
I helped do that.
This fact should feel simple. It does not.
"Finish tying your skate," I say.
He looks down at the knot. "I may have made this worse."
"Yes."
"Can I ask Luca for help?"
"You can ask anyone for help."
He glances at me.
The sentence has betrayed me. Happens more lately.
"With the skate," I add.
"Right," he says, and smiles like he knows exactly what happened and is smart enough not to say so.
I hate rookies.
At 2:15 PM, Gerald calls my name.
This has never happened.
For four years, Gerald and I have operated on a two-word system. Morning. Morning. Sometimes he adds a nod. Sometimes I add a nod. It is a complete and successful relationship.
I am walking past his desk after treatment, hip stiff from Katie's latest attempt to convince cartilage to behave, when he looks up from his crossword.
"Nolan."
I stop so abruptly the hip complains.
Gerald does not look alarmed by his own escalation. Men like Gerald do not escalate unless they have decided the room can handle it.
"GM wants you upstairs," he says.
That is all.
The sentence enters my body before my mind. Upstairs. GM. March. Trade deadline in four days.
"Thanks," I say.
Gerald nods once and looks back at the crossword, as if he has not just doubled the vocabulary of our relationship.
The elevator to the executive level is too slow. Elevators are always too slow when they are taking you somewhere you do not want to arrive. I watch the numbers change. Two. Three. Four. Each floor a small, mechanical betrayal.
Alderman's assistant tells me to go in.
Rick Alderman stands when I enter. This is not good. General managers stand when they are about to make the conversation human so the business part lands softer.
"Nolan," he says. "Sit down."
I sit.
The office has a view of the practice rink. Empty now. Fresh ice. No players. From here, the blue lines look clean enough to be theoretical.
