That almost made me smile. I grabbed my water bottle and shoved my feet into my sneakers.
I followed Mel inside like I hadn’t just been caught napping in a rolling greenhouse. The rink doors opened to blessed air conditioning. My nervous system relaxed half a notch on impact.
Mel didn’t slow down as we crossed the lobby. “You know,” she said casually, “my spare room is still empty.”
“You got the whole wife and kid thing,” I replied.
“I do. And Becca and Leo love you as much as I do.”
I opened my mouth hoping some smart retort would come out . . . but nothing.
She shot me a look.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I’m not pretending.” I protested.
She stopped walking. I had no choice but to stop too. Her eyes were steady. Not accusing. Just . . . there.
“You’re not ‘choosing minimalism,’” she said. “You’re exhausted.”
So I tried a different tactic.
“I’m resilient,” I said.
“I know, but you don’t have to be,” she replied.
I huffed a small laugh despite myself. “I like my van,” I insisted weakly. “It’s cozy. It has ambiance.”
“It has condensation,” she said flatly.
“Only in the mornings.”
She shook her head, then grabbed my shoulders briefly and squeezed.
“You can stay with me anytime,” she said. “No pride tax. No explanation required.”
The offer settled somewhere warm and uncomfortable in my chest.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
She held my gaze another second, then let it go.
“Did I just walk into a therapy session?” Robin’s voice called from behind us. Robin was another teammate, and one who was just as observant as Mel. Where was Zella? She was blissfully naive and never asked questions I didn’t want to answer.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “We were discussing the interior design trends of my van.”
Robin rolled up beside us, helmet tucked under her arm. “Ah, yes. The ‘sweaty hatchback chic’ movement.”
“It’s minimalist,” I said defensively.
Mel snorted.
Robin bumped her shoulder lightly into mine. “You good?” she asked.
