CHAPTER 5
SAWYER
You don’t need a crowd in the stands to feel the Birdcage. This place is loud even when it’s empty.
It’s all steel bones and barely contained energy, like the building is perched on a precipice, waiting for something to happen. Like it remembers every cheer it’s ever held and doesn’t quite know what to do with the quiet. Even on a Monday morning. Even with the stands dark. Even with the mascot costume hung up somewhere backstage, feathers tucked away like it’s off-duty.
The cardinal will be back later. The noise will, too.
And yet, somehow, standing here now, it already feels like it’s warming up.
I step onto the ice and the cold hits my lungs with a wakeup call I need. I like it here on the ice, because it’s like the truth. Good. Honest. Simple. Hockey is the one part of my life that doesn’t require a disclaimer.
Some of the guys are already out here, slicing lazy circles, snapping passes, chirping each other like it’s a love language. The pucks clack against sticks and boards in a rhythm I’ve known since I was a kid. It should settle me, but it doesn’t.
Campbell skates up beside me, looking disgustingly well-rested. He’s got that calm, controlled energy he always has—like he came out of the womb with a game plan.
“You look like you fought a bear,” he says.
“Close.” I yank my gloves tighter. “It was a reporter.”
“Ah.” Campbell’s eyebrows lift. “A bear with a press pass.”
“Don’t joke.” I glance toward the bench, where Coach is talking to the assistant coach, clipboard in hand. His posture is all sharp edges today, which makes sense. First practice after a win, first practice of the week, first practice where everyone in this city is acting like we personally cured winter.
Campbell turns his stick in his hands, studying me. “Okay. What happened?”
I exhale hard, fogging the air. “A reporter from the Gazette showed up at Leaf & Letter. Complete with a camera bag and junior-journalist enthusiasm that should be illegal before noon.”
Campbell makes a low sound. “Please tell me you didn’t do anything…”
“I didn’t do anything.” I glare at him. “Come on. I practically promised our PR team I wouldn’t evenblinkwithout asking permission, and after the press room disaster, I don’t want to be in plant jail forever.”
“Good,” he says, like he’s grading me.
“I’m taking this seriously.”
“I know you are,” he says, tone softening. “Is the plant lady okay…Juliette?”
My jaw tightens at the sound of her name, and I hate that it does that. Like my body is responding before my brain can approve it.
“No,” I admit. “And no. She had a panic attack.”
“Oh, crap.” Campbell’s gaze sharpens. “Did you tell the public relations people?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “I think they could hear me yelling across the Potomac before they even picked up their phones.”
When I stepped outside the shop, I’d dialed the first numberI’ve been told to dial anytime I’m about to do something that might become a headline. Which is apparently a lot of times considering it’s on speed dial.
“Look,” I say, skating toward center ice as Coach blows the first whistle. “This isn’t complicated. They don’t call the press without asking her first. Ever. Period. I reminded them that just because we’re paired together doesn’t mean they get to dictate what happens; she’s still running a business.”
Campbell skates with me, easy as breathing. “And did they agree?”
“They said it was ‘good exposure.’” My voice drops into a mocking imitation. “‘And we can use all the good exposure we can get, Plant Daddy.’”
Campbell winces. “The PR team gave you a nickname?”
I roll my eyes. “I told them if they show up there again without her permission, I’ll personally go on the record saying the public relations firm contracted by the Dominion is run by feral raccoons with LinkedIn profiles.”
