Page 96 of Us

Forsberg stands up. “I’m next. Gotta take a leak, anyway.” He bolts out of the room, returning a few minutes later wearing green.

And Christ—when you get a bunch of these shirts together in one small room? It’s a little loud, this color. But only under this restaurant lighting.

One by one, even after the main courses arrive, every single player leaves the room, returning in The Shirt. I keep drinking, getting happier and sloppier with every sip of wine.

They even got one for Jamie. He’s the last to leave and return wearing citrusy green and a big smile. “Nowwe need the picture,” he says. “I’ve asked the waiter to take it.”

And that’s how Canning and I came to have a big framed photo on our living room wall featuring the entire Toronto team dressed in very loud gingham. I swear the color rendered a little bolder in print than it looks in real life, because this photo is kind of blinding. But Jamie snickers whenever I suggest that.

But there we are, two dozen grins stained red from the wine, waving at the camera like idiots. Blake is in the back row, his napkin tied around his head like a bandana. I have a hand on Jamie’s shoulder right in the center of the shot. His smile is just as relaxed and genuine as the day I met him.

And I look…centered. It’s not a word I’ve ever used to describe myself before. But everything I ever wanted is in that photo—the man of my dreams, and my teammates. I’ve left my smug smile behind in favor of one that’s so shiny I hardly recognize myself.

But it’s me up there for sure. It’sus. And it’s perfect.

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