Page 81 of Home Ice

“The one who notices things.” He ran his thumb along a board’s edge. “That tracks.”

I told him about the key, Heath’s face at the door, and the ladder discussion. Somewhere in there we ate the pastries standing up, and he made tea instead of coffee. I didn’t ask why the tea, and he didn’t explain it.

By eight I was on a stool with my back against the bench leg, more used up than after a game.

Niko set his chisel down.

“There’s an auction in April,” he said. “Estate auction in Indiana, outside Fort Wayne. I go every spring. It’s two days. Farm country, a fairground building, folding chairs, and terrible coffee. It’s old tools, mostly, and furniture few people there understand. Every other year or so, there’s a piece worth the drive.” He straightened up and looked at me. “The twenty-fifth. Your season’s likely done by then. Chet says this is a building season, not a playoff run.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Come with me. This nonsense about the arrangement will be over then, or mostly over. There are no cameras out there. Let’s go together.”

The shop was very quiet. Niko had never asked me for anything, but now he wanted me to expose the one thing they’d never found. It was the one thing that wasn’t discussed on TV.

He wanted me to bring it out into the daylight, where it could be seen. He wanted to be seen with me.

“Sure,” I said. “Yeah. Whatever works. Late April’s pretty open, I think. Depending on how the schedule shakes out. Should be fun.”

The last words echoed in the shop.

Niko was still for a moment. Then he picked up the two mugs of lukewarm tea, carried them to the little sink in the corner, and rinsed them. He set them upside down on a towel.

“It’s late,” he said. “You’ve got an early morning.”

“Yeah.” I got up off the stool. “Yeah, I should get going.”

“Thanks for the pastries,” he said.

It was polite, but Niko didn’t do polite. He said words and phrases like acceptable and he’ll live. The politeness was empty coming out of Niko’s mouth.

I stood there one second too long, waiting for something I couldn’t have named, and it didn’t come.

“Good night, Niko.”

“Good night.”

The door shut behind me, and the bell rang once. Through the glass I saw him at the bench with both hands flat on it, not working, not moving, his head down over the wood like a man reading something written there. Then the light went off before I reached the truck, and I stood on the sidewalk in the cold with my keys in my hand, running the whole evening back looking for the mistake.

I couldn’t find one. I went through it turn by turn the entire way home. He’d asked me to go somewhere with him, and I’d said yes. I’d been friendly about it. I’d been easy about it. I’d said everything right, all the way to the end, same as always.

When I got home, I stood in my kitchen and somewhere under everything I knew something had broken with no sound at all. I still didn’t know what it was, because I’d been there the whole time and heard myself not make a single mistake.

I didn’t hear from Niko the next day. The day after, I sent a text.

Rafe: finished sanding the practice board. 320 felt like glass at the end

An answer finally came just before bed.

Niko: That’s the surface telling you it’s done. Anything past 320 on oak just burnishes it and the finish won’t take.

After I read it a fourth time, I realized what was missing. There was no invitation, no request for me to stop in at the shop. It was the answer you’d get from an expert at a hardware store.

Niko was silent for the next several days. I had a three-point game, and I sat at my stall with nobody but Mom to tell about it.

The phone buzzed.

Trier: Peaches update for the distribution list. She has decided the new food is acceptable. It took nine days. I’ve eaten the cost of the old food as a lesson.