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John spent the entirety of the flight to St. Louis transfixed by how Mo picked and peeled at the bandages on his hand. Through the rows of seats and the gaps between heads and playing cards and half-empty plastic drink cups, two disembodied hands were grabbing and pulling, occasionally flashing shiny pink skin. The latex loosened under the excess force, rowing out like the loose knit stitches his mother would abandon out of frustration on the living room end table when he was a kid.
He should leave it alone, but the justifications for abandoning Mo to his own devices don’t hold up well under his curiosity. As soon as their coats are hung in the suite closet and their suitcases gutted of their toiletries and a change of comfortable clothes, he sends for him under the pretence of one of their standing appointments; though, even if he was forward with his intentions, Mitch wouldn’t have thought to question him anyway.
Mo responds to his summons with his usual unenthusiasm, obliging to John’s unspoken request to join him inside by squeezing himself sideways through the entryway. Even then, he’s intentional about how he purposes his weight as a ram to force John aside, meeting resistance as John braces against him and halves his share of force. It’s the only interaction of theirs observable from the hotel corridor before they can speak their mind, and Mo’s lucky that no witnesses can attest to what would be considered uncharacteristic of him given his supposed role as John’s right-hand man. The new administrative staff might have questions about the duo they were sold on.
Appearances aren’t as big a concern when they’re in each other’s company, so it doesn’t surprise him to see Mo revert to old habits once a door has come between them and the team. He could call it out, but Mo is only as patient as John is true, and they both know he’s here for another reason. In the interest of them being in bed by a reasonable hour, John uses his eyes to point at the dishevelled heap of material bound to Mo’s left hand.
“Did they come loose?”
Mo rolls his wrist; palm up, palm down, fingers fully extended and punctuated by a colourful candy-box assortment of scrapes and bruises. “Yeah. It’s my fault.”
“Let me put something on there,” he says, a hotel washcloth already at the ready.
“No, leave it. I’ll get a doctor to look at it tomorrow.”
“And bleed all over the sheets?”
“John, just leave it.”
John presents the unclaimed half of his bed. “Sit down, it will take two seconds.”
Mo does not suffer quietly, but even then the hard landing of his feet doesn’t register as louder than a mutter. He seats himself on the edge, pinching the half-peeled adhesive between his left thumb and pointer finger and pulling until it rips.
John shoots out a hand to stop him before he breaks skin. “Wait. Let me clean that for you first.”
“Are you waiting on me hand and foot now?”
“Of course.”
He steps over the threshold separating the bathroom from the suite and runs the tap until it’s warm. After a quick temperature check with the back of his hand, he wets a folded corner of the wash towel until the cotton puffs up in size. The hotel’s wholesale soap brand wafts a weak scent of lemon.
“Are you going to ask why I did it?” Mo calls from the other room.
John wrings the excess water from the towel, squeezing once more for good measure. “You had your reasons.” He raises his voice to be heard over the spatter of droplets hitting the metal drain.
“They weren’t good ones.”
John rounds the corner, almost catching his shoulder on the door frame. “Are there ever good ones? Here.” Towel in one hand, he uses the other to carefully peel away the sallow bandages on Mo’s hand, the skin puckering as thin hairs rip away. A litany of open cuts pockmarks the length of each finger.
John enrobes his index finger with the damp towel and begins dabbing around the wounds, some of which are paunchy and rimmed by inflammation.
“Thanks,” Mo says numbly. Up close, John can see he has worried his bottom lip with his teeth until the skin is mutilated by the persistence of the flat edge. Blood wells to the surface, briefly cleaned by the sweep of his tongue.
“Does it hurt?” John asks, trying his hardest not to stare.
“Yeah.” He tries to sit up, but the other injuries do more than just keep score and he just as quickly finds himself sagging into poor posture. “But worse than the pain is knowing how stupid it was. Shouldn’t have done it.” He shakes his head. “Now it’s going to be at least three games, maybe more.”
John shakes out the cloth, leaving it on the television stand to be laundered by housekeeping. He grabs the first-aid kit from his suitcase by the strap and splays it open on the bed beside him. “You can leave the speculation to the analysts. That’s what they’re paid for.”
Mo snorts. “And I’m paid to play, not sit out games because I can’t control my temper.”
John pushes aside tweezers and cotton swabs until he finds the knuckle bandages he’s looking for. Two should suffice: on the knuckles of the index and ring fingers. Mo reclines back onto one of the bed’s throw pillows, head canted in the direction of the gypsum ceiling tiles.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His lips hardly move.
Mo’s arm is held out like he’s requesting a dance, and John relishes how it feels to hold it as he coaxes the fingers to spread apart. A year ago, it would have been unthinkable to have him like this.
“He deserved it.”
“He did, but maybe not that.” His hands clench around the resistance of an invisible opponent. “I used to be able to shake things off. Now I get caught up in the moment and I just fly off the handle.”
His eyes are closed. John risks touching him above the wrist to change the angle. The muscles ripple with contractions, his veins bulging into thick blue cables that wreath between the bones of his wrist. The urge to grab them makes the edges of his vision blur.
“None of us are immune to making bad decisions, that’s why it’s a team sport.” He peels away the backing, pressing the gauze onto the wound and sticking the exposed adhesive onto the underside of the joint.
“I just,” he catches himself, visibly struggling with what he wants to say. “I don’t want to leave Toronto.”
John doesn’t even pretend to take that seriously, repeating the process of dressing the second scrape with practiced ease. “You’re not getting traded because of a cross-check.”
“Not that.” he shifts away from John as much as he can without needing to reposition his whole body. “God I hope not. No, I’m trying to say—I don’t know how to put it without it coming off the wrong way. I love this team, but I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
That could mean anything, a point John is about to raise when Mo bends his left arm at the elbow and brings his hand up to inspect the quality of John’s patch-up, lazily flexing each finger as much as the elasticity allows.
“This will be what, year six of a potential playoff run? Another year of doing it all over again.”
Scrounging up plastic, John wads everything into a ball to be disposed of later. “We’re a Cup-contending team.”
Mo’s other hand briefly raises to gesticulate, but then flops limp onto the mattress, bouncing slightly. “I could deal with it if it was just hockey, but it’s taking over my life. I’m not my own person anymore. I’m here to be picked apart. Every fucking day.”
“You’ve been doing a lot of media,” John tries sympathizing. It triggers something visceral and ugly to rise up the back of Mo’s throat.
“You do it too. You could have had anyone be your guy, but you decided it had to be me.”
“I couldn’t do it without you.”
“You keep saying that, but you were managing just fine.”
“Was I?” He could explain himself and forfeit the advantage, but Mo knows better by now. He’s also preoccupied with rooting around the front packing compartment of his suitcase to find his personal stock of ibuprofen.
“The only difference is I back you up now. It hasn’t changed anything in the locker room. We’re not doing any better than we were before.”
For all the concessions he's made, one thing he hasn’t surrendered is his mind. It speaks for itself, but only spares a few words of contrition in the privacy of John’s company. So much more never sieves through the filter that public relations bridled him with a decade earlier. If only John could pull that tongue out by the thumb and know.
John’s hand bumps into the blunt shape of the distended bottle. He pulls it out by the neck and twists the white cap open, tapping two capsules out onto his palm.
“Things have changed. You’re forgetting that we made the second round last year.” He offers the pills to Mo, who betrays the pain he’s in by accepting them so quickly.
“Then look what happened.”
It was almost worse, because at least in previous years they could brace for impact before they crashed back down to Earth. What followed the second-round exit was an extinction event that cleared more than just house in the Leafs’ front office. However, John’s memory is biased toward the release of the puck from his stick in Game Six overtime, and the guttural, prolonged cry from his teammates who jumped the bench and threw down their helmets in a frenzy to join them in celebrating. He can still feel the unbearable heat beneath his gear compounded by the bodies grabbing at every limb, the boards leaning back to contain them. Mo had embraced him of his own accord and looked at him with something akin to forgiveness. He had held John together during second-period intermission, and would do so again when they were knocked out of the playoffs.
“If we did it once, we can do it again.”
Mo swallows the pills dry; if John had to guess, because he would never live down the shame of asking him to take two steps to the mini fridge for a bottle of water.
“I want to win just as much as you do,” Mo says. “I’m willing to do what it takes. But if it’s never going to happen, then you’re asking me to sign on to being unhappy for who knows how long.”
John zips the first-aid kit shut. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why are you unhappy?”
Mo pushes himself up with his hands. The worry lines on his face have become much more pronounced, pushing down on his eyebrows until they bow from the weight.
“Because I’ve been here long enough that everyone I started with is gone. You’re the captain, and I’m not here to do much more than repeat what you say and keep the younger guys in line so you don’t lose control of the locker room.”
“That’s normal.”
“I could handle that, but you’re asking us to have this…relationship and it means I can’t get close to anyone. I can’t disagree with you or it reflects badly on the team, I can’t go out and get to know our call-ups because they think anything they say will find its way back to you. The people I do like always seem to get traded away.” He covers his forehead with the back of his hand, pressing just above the nasal ridge where the skin is pulled tightest. “At least when management was in on it, the only people we had to convince were out there. Now it’s in the locker room and the press and the promotions and I don’t get a say in anything. I have to do whatever you say,” he points in accusation, “have to go home with you and do what you want because you’re the captain and I’m just here to make you look good so people think we can win. But we’re not winning, so why are we trying to force this? Do you really want us trapped together until we’re traded or retired? Or hospitalized?”
“It’s not just about us. It’s about making the whole team look stronger.”
“So take Matty. Or Mitch. He’s the reason you came here, right? You wanted a playmaker, and you wouldn’t have given him an A if you didn’t think he could manage some responsibility.” He looks down at his legs hanging over the edge, his heels popped out of the collars of the slip-ons.
John’s smile is tight-lipped. “I already have Mitch. I just happen to want you too.” He pats Mo’s knee, holding on for a second longer when it isn’t immediately dislodged. Mo’s usual allowance only permits a touch on the shoulder, maybe a hand on the handle of the waist during a game to escort him to a negotiation with a referee. John isn’t above taking chances that are offered to him when they promise a bit more.
“You can’t make me feel the same,” Mo says, looking at him to make sure he understands.
“You’re here. That’s enough,” John replies, because it’s the truth. There are sides to Mo he won’t get to see, but if he looks to his right, he’ll find him there. That would be the case even if they were at the bottom of the league standings.
A similar realization strikes Mo, who looks down at his bandaged hand.
“After this goes to hearing, you’ll have to survive a few games without me,” he says.
“You gave me the cold shoulder for two years. I think I can manage.”
Mo manages a very breathy laugh. “I should know by now that fighting gets you nowhere; you still find yourself in your captain’s room at the end of the day.”
John stands up and disposes of the wadded ball in the nearby bin. “My room is always open, not just when you’re injured.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll try not to be as stupid next time.” He settles his hands in his lap, looking at John. “Is that all?”
Maybe a year ago, he would have pulled the strings of Mo’s unspoken contract to keep him here. Knowing all they have is time has mollified that urge.
“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he says, happy to be the better person for once.
Mo rises to his feet, unsteady, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He rolls his neck to the side until he hears the joint pop.
“Thanks,” he says warily. “And uh, thanks for the help.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We still have Treliving to talk to tomorrow.”
Mo groans. “I’m not looking forward to it. Keefe gave it to me pretty good already.”
John opens the hotel door, the plastic hanger on the knob knocking back against the surface. Some idle chatter is audible from down the hall. A room service cart squeakily wheels by on the carpeted floor.
“If you appeal, I’ll be there with you,” John says.
Mo breaks eye contact, pretending to fidget with the new dressings. “You don’t have to do that.” Domi’s raucous laugh bounces off the walls, reminding them that anything they say now has to be shared with their teammates.
“It will look better if we’re together.”
Mo’s shoulders hike almost as high as his ears. “I guess,” he says. “Let’s hope for three games.”
“Hope for two,” John replies. “I want you back with me soon.”
He squeezes Mo’s shoulder as he walks out, hoping that Mo takes it as seriously as he does. Not that it matters, because the team salutes his departure from the captain’s room with a few teasing remarks, and so long as Mo is thinking about them, John has nothing to worry about.