Page 80 of Home Ice

“Renting one is even cheaper.”

“That’s not the point,” Heath said. “Possession means it’s there at a moment’s notice.” Kieran took the last potato off Heath’s plate while he was talking.

“How’s Niko’s business going?” Heath asked.

“It’s good,” I said. “He’s busy.”

“Tell him the shelf thing worked,” Kieran said. “The trick with the paper shims. My brother Danny hung his TV with it.”

“I’ll tell him.”

And that was all. We moved on.

When I was ready to leave, I held out the key.

“You should take this back,” I said. “What if your brother needs it again, or you have another guest, or—“

Heath looked at me.

He didn’t say anything. He stood there with a dish towel over his shoulder, patiently waiting for me to correct myself.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said and tucked the key back in my pocket.

“Same time next week,” Kieran called from the kitchen.

In the truck, I worked the key onto my ring, between my truck key and my apartment key.

The next afternoon I drove Pratt home from practice because his car was at the dealer and Trier had a thing with his cat. At his building, he didn’t get out immediately. “There’s a box upstairs,” he said. “Team gear from the holiday thing. I’ll bring it down. Mark knows it’s coming tomorrow.”

Pratt invited me up. The box turned out to be light, and he could have brought it down himself.

Sully was home between shifts, sitting on the counter eating cereal at four in the afternoon, and he pulled me straight into a ruling on whether a bartender should make a Manhattan the customer’s way or the right way.

“His way,” I said.

“See, that’s what I said.” He pointed his spoon at Pratt.

“He’s paying for the right one,” Pratt said, and plugged an electric kettle in. I hadn’t seen him fill it with water. He took three mugs down, reached into the cupboard by the stove, and set a bag of coffee on the counter, and it was my coffee.

It was from a roaster in Saskatoon. It had a grain elevator on the label. Mom mailed it to me, and I brought some to a dinner at Heath and Kieran’s. Pratt loved it, so I had Mom send a bag for him. That was back in November.

It was unopened. Pratt saw me watching. “Third bag,” he said. “Pour-over okay? The machine died.”

I drank a cup of coffee that tasted like my mother’s kitchen in a condo in Chicago, and then I carried the box down and put it in the truck bed, pulling my cover over it. Nobody walked me out.

I had a stop to make before going home. It wasn’t yet dark when I arrived.

The good bakery had two cherry pastries left, and I brought them with me in a white paper bag.

Niko took the bag and set it on the end of the bench. Instead of saying hello, he handed me a sanding block and pointed me toward the grain.

For a long time, the only sounds in the shop were sandpaper on oak in long strokes. The tightness I’d carried in my shoulders slowly loosened.

I told Niko about the coffee.

“Pratt,” he said when I finished.

“Yes.”