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I put my bag in the back, shut the door, and stay where I am.

Cars pull out around me. Roman honks once as he passes. Kowalski lowers his window.

“You waiting on somebody?”

“No.”

His eyes move to the empty space beside me.

“Right.”

“Drive.”

He grins and leaves.

Six eighteen.

The practice facility windows catch the late light. From out here the offices all look the same.

Mack comes through the side door at six twenty-three. He sees me, slows, and walks the rest of the way without pretending he hasn’t.

“You’re still here.”

“I own the parking space.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’ve been here longer than most of the concrete.”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“What’d he say?”

“They want to talk about next year.”

I nod. “That’s good. How far did they get?”

“Not far. No money. No term. Some talk about role.”

“Which role?”

“Same one, mostly. Maybe fewer penalty-kill minutes.”

“That bother you?”

“Ask me when there’s a number attached.”

Fair.

He shifts his weight and stares past me toward his truck.

“They asked if there’s anything keeping me in San Antonio.”

That gets me off the side of mine.

“What’d you tell him?”

“The truth.”