Page 55 of Home Ice

I walked over to the bench and picked up my phone. The postgame broadcast was over. It had ended more than an hour ago.

I had a series of four messages:

Max: GALA UPDATE. tailor moved us to Thursday 4pm, both fittings back to back

Max: also the arrivals plan came through. car gets Rafe at 6, scoops me at 6:15, we’re on the carpet by 7. they’re putting us mid-arrivals, which is prime placement, you don’t need to know why, trust me that it’s flattering

Max: you’re not coming, I know, don’t panic. this is informational. transparency is the foundation of brotherhood

Max: ALSO. did you SEE that pass?

Chapter thirteen

Rafe

The team chat had thirty new messages, most of them Varga’s goal from eleven different camera angles, posted by Varga.

Max had sent me three more messages:

Max: fitting is Thursday 4, do NOT schedule anything, the tailor is doing us a favor and he holds grudges if I stand him up

Max: also I’ve seen the guest list. we’ll discuss in the car on the way

Max: rest up. hydrate. this is our Stanley Cup

I scrambled eggs, made two slices of toast with peanut butter, and thought about the day while I ate.

Varga and I didn’t resolve my response to his invitation. I wasn’t used to that. Every time I said yes or sure, people accepted it.

I did my morning stretching routine and then drank a second cup of coffee, slower than the first. At nine, I stood in front of the closet, where everything hung in its spot, evenly spaced—practice clothes, travel clothes, and the two suits a salesperson had picked.

I took out jeans and a gray henley. Lastly, I pulled on boots with soft soles. I could move in them.

The Hungarian church was brick, with a white steeple and a reader board out front that said WINTER FUNDRAISER. Behind it sat a parish hall with a gravel lot, and the lot was already half full when I arrived. As I opened the truck’s door and stepped out, I heard accordion music.

Inside, a coat rack sagged under its load. A woman sat at a folding table with a cash box. She looked at me and then looked at a printed list before waving me past without asking my name.

The hall smelled of coffee, paprika, and onions. Long tables ran down one side, covered with paper tablecloths. A stage at the far end held a folk ensemble: an accordion, two violins, a bass, and an instrument with a hand-lettered card taped to it that read CIMBALOM. It was the size of a kitchen table, with strings running over a body of honey-colored wood. I caught myself wondering about the specific species of wood. I knew someone who could answer that question, but he wasn’t there.

Dancers, mostly women, scattered across the middle of the floor. Varga stood off to the side with a group of men.

He held a coffee and gestured with it. While I watched, a woman about four foot ten approached him and then reached up to fix his collar without interrupting. He automatically crouched to make it easier.

Varga spotted me from across the hall.

He gave me the once-over, stopping briefly on my boots, and then tipped his head toward the kitchen pass-through. When I approached, he said, “Marta’s in the kitchen. She knows you’re coming.”

“No Rook?” I asked.

“Rook came to the spring fundraiser. This one’s mine. The spring one has the lamb roast. He shows up for the lamb and everyone tells him he’s too thin. He loves it. This is the real one. It has the dancing.”

I hung up my coat.

“Did you eat breakfast?”

“Scrambled eggs.”

Varga scrunched up his nose. “Okay. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you ate, you’re eating again at eleven.” He scanned the hall over my shoulder while he talked to me. “Ah, there she is. Stand up straight.”