What I said was, “I’m good. But thank you for checking.”
He nodded once, that efficient movement that meant the conversation was over. But he didn’t get up. Didn’t move back to wherever he’d been sitting before. He just opened the folder again and started going through practice schedules like this was completely normal, like sitting beside me for the rest of the flight was exactly what he’d planned to do all along.
I put my earbuds back in and stared at game footage I wasn’t processing and tried very hard not to think about the fact that his knee was definitely touching mine now, just barely, the kind of contact that could be accidental except it had been there for five minutes and he hadn’t moved away.
My ribs ached. My face throbbed. I kept my earbuds in for the rest of the flight, even though I’d stopped actually listening to anything about twenty minutes in. My awareness had narrowed to that single point of contact—his knee against mine, the warmth of it bleeding through two layers of fabric, the fact that he hadn’t moved away.
Professional. This was professional. Coaches sat with players all the time. Discussed training schedules. Asked about living situations to make sure their roster was stable and secure. That was the job.
Except the job didn’t usually involve this type of attention, or the way my pulse had been elevated for the last forty minutes, or the fact that I could feel him breathing beside me in a way that suggested I’d been paying far too much attention to things I had no business noticing.
The plane started its descent into Denver. The seatbelt sign came on. Kincaid closed his folder with the same methodical care he’d opened it, and I felt the loss of that knee contact like something physical when he shifted to adjust his seatbelt.
Get it together, Russo.
We landed. The team collected bags, filed off the plane into the terminal with the sort of exhaustion of men who’d just lost two playoff games and had a long week ahead. I grabbed my duffel, wincing as my ribs protested the movement, and headed for ground transportation with everyone else.
“Russo.”
I turned. Kincaid was standing by the exit with his own bag, his jacket slung over one arm, looking like he’d made a decision about something.
“I’m heading your direction,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride.”
That wasn’t a question. That was a statement of fact delivered in the same tone he used for line changes.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.”
Max walked past us with Sorin, caught the tail end of that exchange, and gave me a look I couldn’t quite read before continuing toward the parking garage. Cole and Phoenix were already gone. Keegan had his headphones back on and was walking like a man on autopilot.
“Okay,” I said, because arguing with Kincaid when he’d made up his mind about something was pointless. “Thanks.”
His truck didn’t surprise me. It was the sort designed for Colorado winters and stowing hockey gear. I loaded my bag beside his, then got into the passenger seat and immediately wished there wasn’t a center console between us.
He started the engine. Pulled out of the garage with the same controlled precision he brought to everything. The city slid past the windows—airport roads giving way to highway, the mountains visible in the distance against the evening sky.
“Capitol Hill, you said?” he asked.
“Yeah. I can give you directions once we’re closer.”
He nodded. Turned on the radio, then turned it off again after three seconds like he’d changed his mind about wanting background noise. His hands were steady on the wheel, his attention on the road, and I tried not to watch the way his shoulders filled out his shirt or the line of his jaw or the fact that we were alone in a car and I was having thoughts that were getting progressively harder to ignore.
“About the training,” he said, breaking the silence. “I want to start next Monday if Cinder clears you. Seven AM, before the team gets there. We’ve got three home games spread out, but practice will be light, and I want to see how you manage without distractions. I might bring a couple of the others in to get a feel of where you are.”
“Seven AM,” I repeated.
“Problem?”
“No. Just early.”
“You’re twenty-three. You’ll survive.” There was something almost amused in his voice, which was rare enough that it made me look at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes suggested he was closer to smiling than usual.
“Yes, Coach,” I said.
We took the exit toward downtown. The traffic was light for a Sunday evening, most of Denver apparently somewhere else. I gave him directions to my building—a converted warehouse in Capitol Hill that had been split into studios and one-bedrooms, the kind of place that marketed itself as “industrial chic” and delivered “affordable and slightly depressing.”
He pulled up to the curb outside and put the car in park but didn’t turn off the engine.
