Chapter 24: Right Row

In March, the Falcons made the playoffs, and Rhys broke his wrist blocking a shot in game three.

"It's nothing," he said in the car, with his hand in a cast the color of a traffic cone.

"It's a fracture."

"It's six weeks."

"It's the playoffs."

He looked out the window, and he smiled a little.

"Then I guess I'm a fan," he said.

So on Thursday night we sat in the lower bowl at Northline Arena, in the sixth row, on the aisle.

Rhys had picked the seats himself.

He wore a gray sweater and a blue Falcons hat pulled low, and every third person who passed us stopped to say something to him.

He shook their hands with his left, and he kept his right resting on my knee.

The general manager had given him back the C the Monday after fan night.

He'd done it in front of the whole team, in the locker room, with the jersey folded over his arm.

Rhys had said thank you and hung it in his locker without looking at it.

It was a different arena than it had been in January.

The sponsor's name was gone from the boards, and the boards were plain blue.

The replay guy had been promoted, and he'd sent me a note in all capitals that said I OWE YOU A BEER.

Delaney's accounts had gone quiet on the Monday after.

Somebody said she'd moved to Duluth.

Nobody checked.

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