Her throat moves. A swallow, small and deliberate. “Max.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” I say. And I mean it. That’s the part that surprises even me. “I’m not doing a bit. I’m not running a play.” I look at her directly, no grin, no performance, the stripped-down truth of it. “I don’t want you to underestimate how well I understand you. The real version.”
The lock on her door beeps. We both look at it. A maintenance tech stands at the end of the hall with a new key card, already walking away. He must have come through the stairwell, silent and efficient, while neither of us was tracking the hallway.
She has the card now. She crosses to her room. Presses it to the reader. The light turns green. She pushes it open. Stands half way into her room. “Goodnight, Max.” Her voice is even. Her face is controlled. Her left shoulder is up. It’s been established what that means. I don’t move. And then I step across the hallway. Not into her room. Right to the edge of the door frame, where I stop. Close enough that her perfume reaches me, citrus cutting through the hotel air. Her eyes hold on mine, steady, waiting for me to turn it into a game.
I don’t. “You came down from the press box at the Boston game,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.” Her grip on thehandle tightens. “You filed four separate notes on the Rourke reads,” I continue. “Tracked each decision individually. That's someone paying attention. Not compliance. You.”
“It’s—”
“I realize what it is.” My voice drops. Level. “I want you to know that I know.” She stares at me. The real version of her is right there on her face and she's not pulling it back. Not all the way. Her mouth is tight with restraint, and her eyes are giving me everything she’s not saying.
“Get some sleep,” she says. Strained.
I step back. One step. Then another. To my side of the hall. “Seven-thirty skate,” I say.
Her knuckles are white on the handle. “I’ll be there.” She closes the door.
I stand in the corridor for three full seconds, staring at 1216. The carpet really is aggressively floral. I go inside and drop my bag and sit on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees and look at the floor, and the thing sitting on my ribcage is steadier than wanting what I can't have. She filed four notes on those reads. Tracked each one. She came down from the press box, though she could have recorded it from the booth.
My phone lights up on the bed. Unknown number. No. Not unknown. I’ve seen this number. Her office line, added to the team contact sheet, which I absolutely committed to memory for professional reasons. One message.
You didn’thave to say that
.
I stare at it for a long time.
Then I type back:
I know.
Three dots appear. Disappear. The typing indicator goes still.
Then:
Good game in Boston.
I set the phone facedown on the mattress. Press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Because Antonia Amato texted me from across the hallway after telling me goodnight through a closed door.
She could have texted that from anywhere.
She didn’t have to do it now.
My phone buzzes again.
Don’t read into it.
I pick it up.
Too late,
I send back.
The typingindicator appears. Holds. Holds longer than any sentence needs. Then disappears without sending. I sit with that for a long time.
In the morning, the hotel lobby is chaos. Equipment bags. Coaches yelling. Fuze arguing with the concierge about whether a decorative fountain counts as “technically swimmable.” Talia stands near the elevators, filming B-roll for the team socials while trying not to laugh.
