Not how any of this works

They get the gate code, the garage door opener, the combination to the front door lock, and the number to call or text if they need anything else—anything at all.

“We should be all set,” Travis insists, “this is all great, thanks so much.”

When he finally closes the door behind them, leans back against it with a long, relieved sigh, Pat just shakes his head and laughs.

“Gonna make it, bud?”

“Think maybe I shouldn’t have had that last drink,” is all Travis will allow, no matter how high Pat raises that no shit eyebrow of his.

A bell dings through the house, when the main gate out at the road opens and closes.

“That’s it,” Travis grins, peels his shirt off and flings it at Pat as he heads for the back doors. “They’re finally gone.”

His socks and shoes are next to go, kicked off next to the sofa, then his pants and underwear, which get left in a heap on top of them.

“Just you and me now, bud,” he says, backing out onto the patio while Pat leans against the kitchen island, still fully dressed and shaking his head at Travis like he’s crazy.  “Catch you out there—don’t keep me waiting.”

Then he turns around and walks, naked as the day he was born, across the patio and down the gentle incline into the perfectly-warm pool.

“You remember, right,” Pat calls after him, voice amused, “about the external security cameras on the property? They put it in all caps in the info email? And the dude mentioned them on the tour—twice!”

Travis doesn’t pay him any mind, just calls back over his shoulder, “hope they like the view!”

Then he dives under the water and glides there, weightless and breathless, until his lungs burn.

He turns onto his back once he surfaces, floats there in the slanted rays of the late afternoon sun, feeling just a little dizzy, a little spinny, but not in a bad way. He drifts into the shadow of one of the umbrellas at the side of the pool, opens his eyes to stare up clouds drifting slowly across the wide expanse of sun-bleached blue, watches a wide-winged bird dipping and swooping overhead.

He stays there until he hears the slapping of Pat’s slides shuffling along the concrete pool deck, opens his eyes to see Pat standing just above him, wrapped in a fluffy white robe, dark glasses and a cap, and sunscreen in hand.

“If we’re going bare-assed all week, get ready to spend a lot of time helping me with this.” He shakes the bottle of sunscreen at Travis, like that’s some kind of warning.

For years, Travis was always one of the last to finish up after games, always one of the final stragglers left in the room. He’d be hanging out, shooting the shit and cutting up with the boys, fucking around instead of getting a move on, never worried about the time. When he was really young, it was just because it was fun, the novelty of  just being in an NHL locker room still a shiny new thrill, and he definitely had nowhere better to be, so why rush to leave?

As he got older, he’d thought—if he thought about it at all—that it was all about team building, leadership, about the importance of making sure the boys saw that the guys who wore the letters were always around, always available, putting in the work. Always willing to be first in and last out.

It used to piss Karly off, more and more as the years went on. It led to endless fights and accusations, ranging from his oblivious lack of awareness of anyone else’s time but his own, to blatant selfishness and shirking of his responsibility as a husband and a father. And as much as Travis hates to admit it, he can see now, there was probably some truth to that.

But what he can also see now, looking back with benefit of time and age and the perspective that comes with it, is how he was really just riding the wave, holding on to that lingering adrenaline buzz as long as he could before he had to try and switch it all off. The truth is, he just never managed to learn how to make the transition as seamlessly as some others seemed to, never figured out how to magically turn down the feral aggression and single-minded focus of hockey mode, to close that door and dial up his docile, family-man side all in the space of the drive home.

But that was then.

At this point in his career—in his life—his only priority once the work is done is just wrapping things up and getting gone. Part of it is being older, he knows; the fact is he’s just more worn out at the end of a long game than he used to be. And part of it is being 20 years in, of understanding by now that leadership comes in lots of different forms, that even though he’s wearing an A again this season, it’s okay to let the younger guys do the heavy lifting, okay to just lean into his role as the wise old veteran that every locker room needs.

But of course, the biggest part of it is what—and more specifically who—he goes home to, these days.

Because these days, he goes home to a house that is, for better or worse, usually devoid of children and all the energy, attention and accommodation they require.

And these days, he goes home to a partner who doesn’t need him to make that switch, who’s happy to take him however he comes, and knows exactly how to deal with him accordingly.