Page 127 of Full Contact

I was a little disappointed. He’d had a good time. He’d spent the afternoon on Josh’s carpet helping build an elevator, and he could still picture me driving down without him.

“Were two nights too much?” I asked.

“No. Russ is exactly the way you describe him, and Kelsey, too. I’d come back for the pot roast alone.” He paused. “But Josh should still get you to himself sometimes.”

That made sense. “Yes,” I said. “He should. The hardware store wasn’t even about the screws. Mostly we looked at things we had no reason to buy.”

“Did he try to talk you into the enormous bolt?”

“No, but he thought about it.”

“You can come whenever you want,” I said. “Every visit, if you want to.”

“We’ll work it out,” Mark said. “Visit by visit.”

Somewhere past Rolla, he unwrapped one of Kelsey’s sandwiches and handed me half without asking. At a rest stop north of St. Louis, while he was inside, I opened the trunk and unzipped his bag far enough to check the frog. It sat upright in the middle of the sweater, blue showing through the knit.

“Josh will hold you personally responsible for its safety,” Mark said behind me.

By the time the Chicago skyline appeared as a gray outline, I wanted my couch, with Peaches within reach and Mark beside me.

My phone buzzed in the cupholder as we went down the ramp into the condo garage. I parked before I picked it up.

Kelsey: You two home safe? Your personal scouting report will follow. I have film now.

“Did we pass the arrival check?” Mark asked.

“Yes.”

Chapter eighteen

Mark

My next weekend wasn’t much of a weekend. I worked a home game Saturday night, debriefed with Leah the next morning, and had Sunday dinner with Felix and Dana.

Somewhere in the middle of Sunday’s dessert, I started thinking about the white-bean soup in my refrigerator, a TV show I’d binged half of, and the desire for an evening when nobody had questions about where anyone was sitting.

Leah caught me at my office door Monday at three fifteen, with one arm in my coat. She was holding her tablet flat against her chest.

“The mice episode,” she said.

“I heard about it in Springfield. Trier’s nephew had the comment thread memorized.”

“It isn’t one comment anymore.” She turned the tablet around. The episode had posted the morning of our latest Columbus game and the views flattened out the way they always did. Two days later they’d gone back up and hadn’t come back down. “Somebody started a compilation account. It has one video.”

“What’s in it?”

“The mice. Slowed down. With the final score.”

I stared at the graph line.

“Do I do anything with it?” Leah asked.

“It’s about Trier’s cat, so it’s your decision.”

“I know it’s mine, but I’m asking what you’d do.”

“I’d want to pour gas on the flames.” I put my other arm in my coat. “That’s why it’s yours.”