“Yep,” Max says.
Dave looks at the ceiling. Looks at his radio. “Right,” he says. “Team’s coming back in. Skate in ten.” He holds the door. We go through it. In the corridor, the team is filtering in from the front lobby, boots on concrete, voices loud with the specific energy of twenty-two men who have been standing outside in October complaining about it. Fuze is at the front. He sees us. He sees the towel. The skate socks. My hand, which I have removed from Max’s, but possibly not fast enough. The general situation. His mouth falls open. “Oh my God,” he says. “Is this—” he gestures vaguely between us “—a new training protocol or?—”
“Service exit,” I say. “We were locked out.”
“On the east dock,” Max adds. “By the dumpster.”
Fuze looks at Anthony. Anthony looks at Trey. Trey looks at me with the expression of a man who has captained this team for four years and has seen many things, and is choosing his words. “Everyone gets dressed,” he says. “Ice in ten.”
The team moves. But Fuze already has his phone out and I see the angle he is shooting from and it is aimed directly at us and I am still close enough to Max that the composition of the photo is going to be extremely clear and there is nothing I can do about it because I am a professional and professionals do not tackle rookies for their phones in facility corridors.
Max clocks the phone. Clocks my expression. His mouth curves. “Evidence,” he says.
“Of what, exactly?”
“That you were cold, and I was the warmest thing available.” He tilts his head. “Professionally speaking.”
I unbutton my blazer. Straighten my badge. Put Toni back in place. The Antonia who said she was scared stays on the dock and meant every word. “Ten minutes,” I say. “Don’t be late.” I walk toward the elevator and press the button without turning.
“You should put on clothes,” I say.
“Why?”
The doors slide open. I step inside, finally glancing over my shoulder. “Because staring at you shirtless is becoming a workplace hazard.”
The doors close. I stand there grinning like an idiot.Burning eyes and the smile are mine alone. I keep both in the elevator.
My phone goes off at seven p.m.
I open it.
The photo is surprisingly good for a man who was ostensibly being casual about it. Me in the blazer, badge clipped, hair slightly wrecked from the wind. Max in the towel and the skate socks, six inches taller, messy head of hair, looking at me with an expression I cannot name but which is going to require significant processing time. We are close. The dumpster is visible in the background.
Piper: THE DUMPSTER TONI
Piper: I’M CRYING
Scarlett: This is art. I refuse to elaborate.
Sophie: The socks are doing a lot of work here.
Harper: She’s done.
I set the phone face-down on my kitchen counter.
Elena appears from the living room with her wine. Studies my face. “What happened?”
“Fire alarm.”
She waits.
“We gotlocked on the service dock,” I say. “For twenty minutes. By the dumpster.”
She waits more.
“He told me he looked for me,” I whine. “After Rockford. For a year.”
Elena goes completely still.
