Page 39 of Caught Offside

“I don’t want to have that conversation,” Patrick said.

“I know. And we may not need to. Three weeks is a long time. The cap picture can change. I’m telling you now because you handle information better than uncertainty.”

He was right. Patrick had built his life around the principle that preparation diminished threat. But this was a front office running numbers on a spreadsheet, weighing his twenty-two minutes a night against Harmon’s cheaper contract and longer runway.

“Patrick?”

“I’m here.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Keep me informed. Don’t manage the information. If something changes, call.”

“I will. And, Patrick, take a few days. See someone. Don’t sit in that apartment turning it over by yourself.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be fine sitting in that apartment turning it over. That’s not the same thing.”

They hung up. Patrick set the phone on the counter and didn’t move for a while.

Three weeks until the protection list. Then the draft. Then a decision that would determine whether this apartment, this city, this life he’d assembled piece by piece, remained his.

He poured out the cold coffee. Made a fresh cup. Drank it standing in the same spot and felt the expansion draft settle into the space behind his ribs where he kept the things he couldn’t fix.

His phone buzzed.

Asher

Morning. You home?

Yep.

Then he made himself add the rest because honesty was a muscle he’d been building.

Talked to Marc. Expansion-draft stuff.

Three dots. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Good stuff or bad stuff?

The honest answer was he didn’t know yet. The protective answer was it’s fine. The answer that would mean letting someone all the way in was one he couldn’t type and wasn’t sure he could say aloud.

Complicated. I’ll tell you about it later.

Okay. I’m here when you’re ready.

He set the phone down. Asher’s running shoes were by the door where he’d left them on his way out the last time, scuffed and mud-stained, the laces still loose. Patrick had walked past them for weeks without a second thought. This morning, they felt like a reminder of everything that was on the line.

With Santa Fe two thousand miles out on the horizon, an old reflex he’d thought he was done with stirred at the back of his mind, quiet and cold, and counted up everything he suddenly had to lose.

He didn’t follow it. Not yet. But it had stirred, and he’d felt it. That was new. He carried the small cold weight of it into the bedroom to unpack. He folded his suits. Sorted his laundry. Put his skates in the bag designated for off-ice storage and his sticks in the corner of the closet. The equipment smelled like the series. He’d wash everything later. For now, the ritual of organization was enough.

His phone buzzed again. His mother, a voice message in French. Sylvie talked about the garden. The neighbor’s fence. A recipe Patrick had declared inedible and she’d declared a success. At the end, without transition, she said the rest. Tu as bien joué, mon cœur. On est fiers. You played well, sweetheart. We’re proud.

He saved the message.

The morning light moved across the floor. It was the first day since training camp with nothing in it.