Page 146 of Full Contact

I looked at the peas. “How did you know?”

“I’ve watched you ice a hip.”

***

Two days later, practice ran long. The video session after was even longer. Then I spent an hour of treatment on a table with a heat pack under my hip and a band around my knees, thinking about my couch and Mark at the other end of it.

The condo smelled of cumin and grilled onions. Mark’s coat was on the hook, and his shoes were lined up beside my sneakers. On the counter sat a paper bag and a stack of foil containers: carne asada tacos from a place on Halsted. Peaches sat on the little wooden chair with her nose pointed at the foil.

Mark set out two full plates. He kissed me hello, one hand on my arm, careful of the wrist.

“How was treatment?”

“Long.”

“I can tell.” He went back for forks. “I’ve been thinking about something Graham asked me. Not the logistics. He asked what I’d change about how the clubs handle a bad week, and I had an answer before he finished the question. I didn’t know I had one. I’ve spent eleven years learning how to do this job, mostly by getting it wrong first, and nobody’s ever asked me what I’d do if I got to decide for everybody. I’ve been trying all week to work out why that hit me the way it did—“

He stood at my counter with a fork in each hand, and his voice had picked up speed, the way it had the night of the chili.

“Can we eat first?” I asked. “Quietly. I want to hear it, but my head’s still on the ice.”

Mark stopped.

“Of course,” he said, seating himself at the table.

He’d remembered the extra lime and the hot sauce I liked. I ate two tacos without talking. He ate his and stayed silent, too. Peaches climbed down from her chair and made a slow circuit under the table, checking our ankles in turn.

After our meal, Mark rinsed the plates while I put the containers away. Then he took his book to the lamp end of the couch. I took off my shoes, stretched out along the rest of it, and put my feet against his thigh. He rested his hand on my shin, gave it a squeeze, and opened the book.

I closed my eyes. I heard him turn pages. Peaches climbed onto my chest, turned around once, and settled with her back end under my chin. The ache in my hip eased into something I could ignore.

An hour later, Mark picked up his phone to check the time. “I need to go,” he said. “I’ve got a seven-thirty with partnerships.”

I moved Peaches off my chest.

“What were you going to tell me?” I asked. “About Graham.”

Mark closed the book on his thumb.

“It can wait,” he said. “I’d rather tell you when I’m not watching the clock.” He found his shoes, and I walked him to the door.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said. “And for the hour. I needed it.”

“I know you did.” He pulled on his coat and kissed me, with one hand at the back of my neck. “Ice the hip.”

“I will.”

He said goodnight to Peaches. I listened to him walk to the elevator, and then I texted him before he could have reached the lobby.

Trier: I still want to hear it.

Mark: You will.

***

A week later, St. Louis came to town and beat us five-one.

They forechecked with a vengeance. Every time Rook or I went back for a puck, two red-and-navy jerseys arrived with it. By the middle of the first period we were rushing passes we didn’t need to rush.