Page 96 of Goaltender Interference

“Was it helping?”

“I don’t know. Not really. I could tell her about some of this stuff, but I still felt...the same.”

“Depressed?”

“I guess so,” Aiden said slowly. Dr. Gauthier hadn’t put labels on the way he was feeling, but he was, well, pretty depressed. It had been bad even with Matt, the only light in his life at that time, and it had only gotten worse since he’d left. “I’ve been pretty depressed after retiring.”

“That’s to be expected even for someone—someone who wasn’t as intense about playing as you were. I’m glad you were seeing someone, even if it wasn’t helping the way you would have wanted it to.”

“It’s just,” Aiden said. Sometimes when he tried to explain things like this, he couldn’t think of the appropriate words. It was hard to look at his own emotions from a distance. He’d never found it easy to understand them. Would it have helped if his parents had taken him to a doctor? If he could have had a framework for understanding his own brain? It was too late now. “It’s just that I really feel like without hockey, I’m just not the sameperson. Almost like I’m not even a person. And I don’t know whether therapy can even help that.”

Mom sighed and held out her arms. He accepted the hug, even though the only person he ever truly felt comfortable hugging was Matt. Her arms were tight around him when she said, “We don’t have to figure this out right now. Let’s just get you eating and some of your house in order. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks. For coming. For not being...” He wasn’t even sure what he had meant to say. He was ashamed, when she saw how he had been living. But that had been in his own head, not anything she’d done.

“I willalwayscome for you. Even if I have court. Even if I have deadlines.”

When Aiden said, “I know,” he believed it.

Mom pulled away, and said, a little gruffly, “We have a lot of cleaning to do, yes? Come. Let’s get back to it.”

It felt good and necessary to have something to do, and someone to tell him how to do it, and so Aiden said, “Yes.”

Matt and Miles didn’t play in the same division, and never had. Both of them had had the unique experience of playing with the same team throughout most of their careers, although it had taken Miles a longer time to crack a major league roster. His brother, at thirty-four, was now a veteran member of the New Jersey Scouts’ blue line. He and Jess had built a nice little life in Short Hills with the kids.

It was still an event when he came to Montreal, and even better when they had a chance to actually catch up and grab dinner together the night before. It didn’t always work out, with the way the travel was scheduled, and Matt was both looking forward toanddreading this dinner.

He’d been dodging calls from both of his parents, which meant that they werereallyworried about him, if Dad was calling. Daron Safaryan was an old-school kind of dad, the sort of guy who’d rather take you out for a silent walk in the woods or fishing on the lake than ever consider talking about a feeling. Usually that suited Matt just fine. So the fact that he’d missed a few calls from Dad’s number—no voice mail—meant that the news had probably gotten back home, probably through Miles, and Mom was panicking. So Matt had absolutely no doubt that they had probably deputized Miles to try to get some news out of him.

Matt texted Miles beforehand:Hey, I can get reservations at one of my usual spots if you want to meet me?

You’re the expert, Miles replied.

One of the things Matt loved most about Montreal was the variety of restaurants. Pretty much anything you wanted to eat, you could find, and not only could you find it, it would be some of the best food you’d ever eaten. For some reason there were a ton of Italian restaurants, too, which was good because both he and Miles were big pasta guys. It was possible to get a last-minute reservation, mostly because he was a regular and had gotten to know the chef a little. He sent Miles the address and got ready to go.

Miles was wearing a new peacoat when Matt caught sight of him by the door, and he grinned. “Hey, what happened to the guy who used to make fun of me for getting custom-made coats?”

“I realized how comfortable they were,” Miles said, a little sheepishly. “And you know... I can afford it, so.”

“Fancy.” Matt extended his arms. They hugged briefly, and Miles pounded him on the back just once. It was nice to be able to have a quiet dinner without the kids, without worrying about being interrupted, but Matt thought that depending on how this went, he might want to be interrupted. He briefly wished that Aiden was here to rescue him, to send a text that would give him a ready-made excuse to escape. But of course, part of the reason he was dreading this was the fact that Aidenwasn’there.

“How’re you doing, Matt?”

“Great,” Matt said unconvincingly. “You know. Just getting through the season. You saw we had that little losing streak. Planning on snapping it tomorrow.”

“Ohh, he’s feeling mean,” Miles teased, but followed Matt inside, out of the biting cold, without any real argument.

It was a pleasant restaurant, within walking distance of Jean-Talon, the kind of place that was always busy, but not too loud; sleek and modern, but not too trendy. The servers, who all knewhim by now, didn’t make a big deal about it when he came in, and people sometimes asked for autographs but usually left him alone.

They sat down at their table and perused the menus in silence. The restaurant had a pretty extensive wine list, with bottles ranging from $50 to $500. Matt picked one he’d tried before, a midrange Tuscan red that had a nice aftertaste, because Miles was usually a beer guy and couldn’t tell the difference, and then they got into squabbling over the appetizers the same way they always had. It was easy and companionable, and they didn’t talk about anything real, anything of import.

They made companionable small talk about Jess’s work at the hospital, and Ellie’s goalie practices, and Theo’s latest obsession, which was paleontology. Miles asked about his knee and Matt was honest: it hadn’t been great. He’d had to rely on pre-and post-game medication more often than not, and it wasn’t looking like that would let up anytime soon. It wasn’t until Matt had ordered them pan-fried shrimp in vermouth and a dish with breaded veal and seared tuna and a pasta to go with it while they were considering the mains that Miles looked up at him with a frown.

“Hey, Matt.”

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