Page 7 of Gave Proof Through the Night

By the time the water’s out of sight, Georgetown’s turned into cobblestones and brick storefronts. Tourists photograph rowhouses. A guy in a Nationals cap argues with a parking meter.

My legs are tired. A whole day of media will do that. One more take, big smile, fifty-three takes, thanks to a PA who couldn’t count to three. Tyson stood through all of it with his arms crossed, waiting on the rest of us like he had nowhere else to be.

I check my phone. The Corpus Christi team chat (AKA CC Boyz) has ten million messages and every single one of them is about Cinco de Mayo. I had put my phone on do not disturb earlier for some peace, and now that it’s on again, there’s a deluge of messages.

CC Boyz

Fletcher: cinco de mayo on a TACO TUESDAY

Mitchell: this is what we’ve been training for, boyz

Fletcher: the stars have aligned

Hartley: we are doing shots tonight in honor of your people, jeremiah

Me: cinco de mayo isn’t Mexico’s independence day

Fletcher: …what

Me: not really celebrated in Mexico. more of an American margarita holiday at this point

Fletcher: …wait. When IS Mexico’s independence day

Me: september 16

Mitchell: we’ve been doing this WRONG

Hartley: ok BUT the shots are still happening

Mitchell: the shots are ABSOLUTELY still happening

Fletcher: CC gonna miss you, traitor

Hartley: leaving us after three years man

Mitchell: THREE YEARS hockey stick emoji crying emoji

Me: I’m not dying, I’ll see you guys in a few days. Geeze

Fletcher: yeah mitchell’s getting hitched boi

Hartley: Are you amped for skydiving or what?

Our first-line defenseman is getting married. Hartley’s his best man. And apparently, before any of that, the four of us are throwing ourselves out of a perfectly good airplane, for reasons still unclear to me beyond the fact Hartley watches too many extreme sports clips.

I lift my eyes off my phone to see two guys peel off from a knot of tourists near a shop window, moving with that stiff, trying-not-to-run energy. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, and the forward-leaning walk you only get from years on skates.

“Are you… dude. Are you Jeremiah Precio?” The taller one already has his phone out.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

They saw the tournament info on some hockey account this morning, talking over each other to explain it. They play for their high school, left wing and center, and they have opinions about my slap shot that are, honestly, mostly correct.

“Do you release off your back foot? Because Coach says…”

“Front foot, mostly. Weight transfer does the work, not the arm.” I show him with an imaginary stick, right there on the sidewalk, because some things you can’t half-explain. He nods like I’ve handed him the keys to the hockey kingdom.

We do the selfie. I ask their names. Julian, and a kid who just says “Bear,” and tell them good luck this season. Julian says they’re coming to a game this summer if they can swing tickets. I tell him I’ll see what I can do, and I mean it, and for about ninety seconds nothing in my life is complicated at all.