He's too serious when he smiles. "No. We watched you."
That's a lot to take in about him and my kid. I give myself a moment while I close the distance between us, crawling under the covers. The domesticity is a lot too, but I turn off my bedside lamp and lean into it anyway. Our heads are on our own pillows while we face each other and can barely see.
"How'd my curious and clever daughter react to that? She must have had questions."
"She did. She asked how often you and I talk, and I kinda shrugged and said you're busy these days, but that we text when we can."
"That's true."
"We let her know about our friendship for a reason, right?"
"I guess we did," I say. "Did she push for any other answers,Mateo?"
"Nah, she was easy to distract. I asked about school and soccer, and I got to hear all about Simon, plus she agreed to come down to help me out with a workshop after her season's over."
"Ah, yeah, all that tracks."
We shift closer to each other then, or it could just be him reachingfor me. His hand is in my hair, like mine is so often in his. My eyes fall closed for a few reasons, but then I hear Mateo chuckle and I open them again.
"Your hair. I was trying to figure out what was different, but it's—you've got coach hair instead of player hair."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I snort. "I wore a helmet when I was playing. Of course it's different now."
It's funny, but it's not. I can feel his fingers at the back of my head, and I need him to feel something, too. Our conversation is almost silly, and it makes it possible for me to touch him back. We're friends. We've said it a million times. So I bring my hand to his bare chest, and then slide it around to his side and hold him there, and I wait for more teasing to cut the intimacy of whatever this is.
"Relax. You're still pretty."
"Shut up."
He does, even if we both know I'd listen to him talk forever. Our legs are slotted together now, though we're practiced and careful about it. I don't make a sound, still hungry for his touch but quiet about it tonight. And even though my body is rocked by time zones and a very long couple of days, I think Mateo may be about to fall asleep. It's okay, though. His steady breathing gives me a chance to say what I'd been thinking when we were outside.
"I don't know why—it's stupid in hindsight—but I hadn't thought about the crowd before I heard all the cheers," I start, sighing and fidgeting until Mateo soothes me by softly scraping his short nails against my head over and over again. "We played them already, back in New Jersey. I was a disaster about it. And really, only three of the guys were playing back when I was, but I spent all those years still hanging around the games after I got hurt. Having to coach against them was a big deal. Then I got through all the emotions and refocused, and it felt like a huge moment came and went, and I wasstill standing."
"But tonight you were back home," he says, slow and sleepy. "Why didn't you expect the crowd to cheer?"
"It's not that I didn't expect them tocheer. I forgot to prepare myself for them at all. After already playing a team full of guys I got to know pretty well, my focus was on finally being back in an arena I know inside out, but as a visitor this time. I knew it was gonna fuck with my head—wrong locker room, wrong bench—but I was so hung up on the place that I didn't think about the people in it. The fans."
"Yourfans."
"I've heard people yelling my name everywhere we've played. Booing me, too. That love-hate relationship I had with them way back then? It's quieter now, but it's still there. I just forgot that it wouldn't be the same here. My fans here haven't stopped being loud."
My voice breaks, and I start to roll away from Mateo, but he's still holding me and won't let go. "Don't leave."
It's what I'd said to him when I asked him to come inside and spend the night, and I'm sure he knows that as well as I do. A tear rolls over the bridge of my nose. A few seconds later, his fingertip is there to trace whatever is left behind. He touches my lips next, and my eyes have adjusted enough that I can watch him watch me. My hand remains curved over his ribs, and I feel each steady breath before he speaks again.
"Did the cheering make things harder or easier for you tonight?"
"Harder."
"Why?"
I sit with that—lie with it, technically—and think about how to walk this tightrope. I've been trained on it, and I've been told not to look for a net when the media hits me with question after question. Of course, I don't take those questions these days. Official attentionis directed at Taylor while I keep busy with anything else that needs to be done. But Taylor isn't in my bed, and after four and a half years, Mateo wants to know more about me. I want to tell him without leaving too many more tears on my pillow.
"It was sofrustrating. My response to them. Why do I need them so badly? After all this time, why does it matter so much that they still love me like they did before?"
"It was your parents who first got you into hockey, right?"
"Yeah, my dad was a fan, so he suggested it when I was little," I answer. "My mom drove me to practice. Both of them were at my games."