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For ten minutes, nothing happens. Greeley asks about the skate and whether my legs are back after a week off. He tells a story about his own freshman year, getting scratched four games straight, and it’s a good story, and Mathers laughs, remembering it. I stand there with my hands in my jacket pockets and watch. Every couple of minutes, he opens a door for me.

“We’re good, right?” he says, the first time.

“Yeah.”

“Because I don’t want a thing, Kennebeck. We’ve got a season.”

“Same.”

“So say it. Say we’re good, and we’ll all have a beer, and I’ll shut up about it.”

I look at him across his own kitchen with six of his guys in it, and I know exactly what I’m being asked to say and which version of it gets repeated in a locker room tomorrow morning. Kennebeck came over and said we were good.

“We’re fine,” I say.

Greeley smiles at his beer and takes a small sip. He says Dannebrog’s talked about moving the lines again.

“Is there a point coming?” Rafe says.

“I’m just talking.”

“You’re always just talking.”

“Waleska.” Greeley turns to him, delighted. “How’s it feel to be the reason your line’s got a reputation?”

“Better than being the reason mine’s got a coach,” Rafe says, and the two guys at the table go ohhh into their drinks, and for one second, it’s almost fun.

Then Greeley looks back at me. “Your dad coming out for the exhibition?”

I don’t say anything.

“That’s what I heard. That he flies out.” He tips his beer. “That’s a lot of travel for a guy who’s going to watch his kid sit at the end of a bench.”

“He’s not coming.”

“He’s coming,” he says. “Guys like that always come.”

Guys like that, out of his mouth, in that tone, about a man he has never met.

“You don’t know anything about my dad.”

“I know he’s been driving you to rinks since you were four. I know he calls you after skates. Barnes told half the bus in August.” He glances at Koda, who shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m not even saying it’s bad, Kennebeck. I’m saying it explains things.”

“Okay, fuck off,” Koda says.

“What does it explain?” I ask.

Greeley shrugs. “Why you can’t stop.”

I look at the door. I’m going to leave. I look at Rafe, and I can hear him in the room an hour ago: say it. Say you won’t touch him first. I take a step toward the door.

“Hey,” Greeley says, “how’s the blonde?”

I stop.

“Because I saw her Sunday, walking past the union with her little friends. She’s got that walk like she’s mad about something. And I thought, that’s a shame, because she was nice.” He says it easily, like he’s being generous, looking right at me. “I could’ve had her upstairs screaming my name.”

It turns my stomach. “Shut your fucking mouth.”