Page 101 of Puck You Both

I stop in the kitchen doorway, and for a few seconds, they don’t notice.

Theo is barefoot on my counter, cross-legged, eating out of the container labeled MONDAY. Today’s very much not a Monday. Wall stands at the island in a black hoodie, working through a second container with my good fork, the one fork in this apartment worth calling good, which he has located on his first unsupervised evening here. On the television above the cabinets, my glove is catching Ace's shot with the sound low.

And at my usual spot at the island, under a sheet of foil, sits a plate.

They made me a plate.

I make the plates. That's the constitution of this kitchen. I know Theo eats double after games and ignores anything green unless it's hidden under chicken. I know Wall announces he isn't hungry and then wolfs down everything within arm’s reach for an hour.

That's my data. I collected it.

And while I was busy collecting it, these two were keeping their own book on me, because I can tell from the doorway that the plate under that foil holds the bigger piece of chicken, the one I portioned this morning without either of them knowing why.

Something goes through my chest that no spreadsheet of mine has a column for.

I built this apartment for one man with one schedule. One set of containers, labeled by day, one fork worth defending. Now there's a bag at my coat rack and bare feet on my counter and my save replaying for two men who watched it live from opposite ends of the rink, and a plate they prepped for me, in my own kitchen.

I peel myself off the doorframe and point at Theo's container. "That was Monday's lunch."

He lifts his fork in salute. "It was. Then you became a hero and earned the right to watch us eat it."

Wall looks down at his container. "Your portions are inefficient."

He says this holding my good fork, eating my food, and the tenderness of the whole arrangement comes at me sideways. I reach for faux-irritation instead. "Get out."

Wall takes another bite. "No."

Good.

On the television, my glove closes around the shot again. Theo points his fork at Wall. "He's watched it six times."

"Three."

Theo ignores him. "The first two were standing up."

I take out my phone.

I chuckle. "You're both very normal about hockey."

Wall finally looks at me. "You already saved it to your phone, didn’t you?"

I did. It sits in my camera roll to deal with later, along with a text from my father.

Theo moves on to demolishing the vegetables now, which means the container is in its final minutes, and Wall goes back to the replay, five viewings now, or whatever number he's willing to admit to, and there's a bag by my door because he plans to still be here tomorrow. Nobody asked me to approve any of this.

My phone burns a hole in my pocket.

My father knows the save already. He's probably watched it more times than Wall. He knows my glove hand, my numbers, the standings down to the decimal, because that's the version of my life I ship to him. The broadcast cut. Edited for content, family-friendly, delivered by a thumbs-up.

The two men in this kitchen never got the broadcast cut. They walked into the middle of the live one and started making plates.

Theo’s voice yanks me out of my own head. "Everything okay?"

"Yes." It comes out fast and polished. I look at the foil and think back about the bag in my hallway, then shove my hand into my pocket, my fingers closing around my phone. "I need five minutes."

Wall's attention in still on the screen. "Take ten. We can manage without you."

I go to my bedroom, and pull the door most of the way shut behind me.