Page 151 of Full Contact

I looked at him. “I mentioned the new route once on Monday.”

“It stuck,” he said.

“I haven’t made it up yet. The third time I stopped thinking and just climbed. I got close.”

“That works on the ice too. Until it doesn’t.” He held up his left hand and turned it slowly at the wrist, all the way one way and back. “The trainer says I can stop taping for practice.”

“That’s a lot better than last week.”

“She promises it will heal if I do what I’m told.”

Peaches leaned forward until her chin was level with the counter. Trier slid the cheese six inches out of her reach without looking. She sat back and studied the tomatoes instead, as though she’d preferred them all along.

We ate at the counter, devouring tacos as fast as we could fill them. Trier pulled a bag of spinach from the refrigerator, and he piled it on. The team nutritionist insisted on extra greens for the postseason.

I told him about Felix’s ribs on Sunday. He said Kieran’s secret ingredient was pear juice.

Afterward, on the couch, I put my feet across Trier’s lap. His hand settled around my ankle. Peaches climbed over my shins and curled up between Trier’s hip and the arm of the couch.

Trier pulled up Knives Out and looked at me. “You’ve seen it,” he said.

“Twice. It’s a movie well worth watching a third time with good company.”

“Don’t tell me who did it.”

“I’ll be very professional.”

Twenty minutes in, Trier had opinions about everyone in the family. “The son-in-law’s lying,” he said.

“They’re all lying.”

“He’s lying worse. He’s touched his collar three times since the detective sat down.”

I hadn’t noticed the collar either time I’d seen the movie. Trier watched the family the way he watched an opposing team on the ice, waiting for someone to cheat toward where they wanted the puck to go.

When the nurse threw up after telling her first lie, he sat forward so fast his heels fell off the coffee table.

“That’s a terrible tell,” he said.

“It’s a plot device.”

“It’s still a terrible tell. She’d never get through a contract negotiation.”

Peaches walked the length of Trier’s legs and then across my lap without asking permission from either of us. She settled on his stomach facing the television.

Somewhere around the second hour, I realized I’d stopped watching the movie. I was watching Trier: the small nod when a piece fit and the frown when he didn’t trust someone on the screen.

The credits rolled a little before ten. “I had the wrong guy until the last twenty minutes,” he said.

“Everybody does.”

“I don’t like having the wrong guy.”

“I know you don’t.”

He walked me to the door, and I kissed him with my coat half on.

“I had a good evening,” I said.