Page 111 of What We Knew Then
Sundaybrunchwithmyparents is quiet enough to make my ears ring.
The restaurant is one of those places we’ve been coming to for years. My dad got back from the road trip early that morning and met us here.
No one brings up the suspension, the loss, or Lane. We basically exchange small talk for an hour. My dad talks about the upcoming series next weekend—at home, against Lane’s old team.
I nod.
The whole thing feels like we’re balancing on the edge of something no one wants to say out loud. When the check comes, my dad glances at his watch.
“We’re doing a film session at one of the assistant's places. I think there may be some drinks involved, which is why we can’t do it at the rink.” He winks at my mom when he kisses her goodbye.
My stomach tightens because that’s perfect.
Thearenaisquietwhen I let myself in. Sunday afternoons are usually empty unless there’s a game, and the place feels cavernous without the noise of skates or sticks or music echoing off the rafters.
My dad’s office sits at the end of the hallway by the coaching suite. I’ve been in here a hundred times on my own—finishing stats, game reports, data work for the team.
I still hesitate before unlocking the door. Technically I’m allowed in here whenever I need to be, but I’ve never shown up when my dad didn’t know.
We’ll consider this a gray area.
His desk is exactly how it always is—papers stacked in neat piles, whiteboard covered in scribbled lines and player rotations, a half-empty mug sitting beside his laptop.
My heart is already beating too fast. Gray area or not, I’m not the type of person to even come close to bending the rules.
Desperate times or something like that.
I breathe through the wave of anxiety, step inside, and lightly close the door behind me.
The quiet presses in immediately.
If someone walks by in the hallway, I’ll hear it. If my dad comes back—
I push that thought away. He’s going to be focused on film for a while. He went there right after brunch.
My hands are shaking a little as I move around the desk. I’m not here for anything complicated. I really just need his phone.
Kind of wild to think that my plan relies completely on this piece of almost obsolete technology. The desk phone. The landline.
For a second, I just stare at it.
Once I do this, there’s no taking it back. Lane sitting in that press box flashes through my head. The way he looked at me in his apartment.
Landline or not, this thing still has a pretty extensive caller ID. I start going through it until I find the name I’m looking for.
Knight, David.
Coach Knight—Lane’s old coach. The one who took him in, and the one person who might be able to help me make things right.
My heart pounds like it’s making my bones shake. I take in a deep breath, filling my lungs, and then let it out.
I press call. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.
I grip the edge of the desk, listening to each ring echo in the quiet office. I need him to answer, otherwise this idea starts and ends here.
Then someone picks up.
“This is David.”
