Page 5 of Puck Daddies
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is for me.” He swipes a fry and makes a face at how cold it is, then eats it anyway because he won’t waste food ever.
The guys know the schedule. I say it anyway because saying it makes me feel like I’m tucking something in for the night. “I’m out by eleven,” I tell them. “Deliveries. Roc has the early shift at the rescue. Fitz has a foundation pour at sunrise.”
“Ceremony,” Fitz says, making it sound fancier. “We do the first shovelful with the family and the donors. Then I make the actual crew mad by asking to help.”
“You do help,” Rocco says. “You bring doughnuts.”
“Bringing doughnuts is transformational leadership,” Fitz says, and deadpans so hard I choke.
We start the exit. A couple of guys groan like we’re old. It’s friendly. Half the room volunteers somewhere in the morning too. One of the rookies calls after us, “Don’t get too wholesome, grandma!” and I throw him a look that says I’ll put him into the stanchion at practice if he keeps using his outside voice inside. He laughs and toasts me with his beer.
We settle the tab, overtip on purpose, make the round of handshakes and hugs. Sticky’s door breathes us out into the cold. Wet concrete scent fills the air, and the arena lights are still on in that maintenance way that makes the building look like it’s waiting for us to finally get it right.
We walk to my car because I volunteered to drive. I like being the one with the keys, the one who sets the speed and the music. Control is a good fence for me.
Fitz sets the radio to low and talks over it like he always does when he doesn’t want to think too much. “I should have told her I had to rescue a ravine at dawn,” he says. “That’s not a lie. The trench for the footer’s a ravine if you squint.”
“She didn’t ask,” Rocco says. “She wanted the idea of you.”
“She wanted a ride on the beard,” I say, checking the mirror.
“I’ll shave it,” he threatens.
“I’ll pay you to.” Rocco leans his head back and closes his eyes like he’s powering down. He’ll fall asleep if we don’t keep him talking.
We peel away from the curb and the city slides past. There’s the mural with the giant violin we always make jokes about when we’re late to sound check for the charity concert. There’s the corner where the buskers fight over the good Saturday afternoon slot like it pays more than pride. There’s the stretch of road where the potholes know our names. Baltimore is a series of rooms I know by heart.
“You danced longer than you had to,” I say, because I’m not letting it go. “Both of you.”
Rocco cracks one eye and yawns. “She liked my voice.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s an answer to why I didn’t feel like being the reason someone cried in a bathroom,” he says. “I got trapped once by abridesmaid at my cousin’s wedding. I learned my lesson. You put a time cap on the nice, and then you send signals.”
“What signals?” Fitz asks, too innocent.
“The ones where you become boring on purpose so they take pity on you,” Rocco says. “I told her about the shelter intake process in alphabetical order until she started nodding like her neck hurt.”
Fitz barks a laugh and then bites it back. “Mine was pretty,” he says again, like he’s testing the word. “Just not the right one.”
“What’s the right one?” I ask.
“I’ll know when it’s in front of me,” he says.
We roll through a green that’s going to turn the second we clear the intersection. I let the car do its thing and keep my hands loose at ten-and-two. I’m trying to be better about white-knuckling. There’s no reason to bring the game home when the game didn’t ask to be a passenger.
“Tomorrow’s deliveries,” Fitz says, the way you ask a kid to talk about something they love, to help them settle before bedtime. He knows my tricks too.
I shrug. “Same seven as last week unless the list rotates. Ms. Delaney will say I’m late even if I’m early. Mr. Pitts will try to give me ten dollars for bringing the paper up with the bag even though it’s free. The twins will ask how many fights I got into and then argue over whether practice counts.”
“Practice doesn’t count,” Rocco says.
“Don’t start,” I warn, but I’m smiling. The argument is older than the rookies. It feels good in my mouth.
Traffic thins as we get into our neighborhood. It’s fancy. Fitz picked it because the landlord doesn’t care how loud we are at two in the morning and the parking lot is big enough for Fitz’s truck and my ridiculous quad of storage bins.
