Then I stop.
Ryan.
He will leave with nothing if someone tells him his mother collapsed. Or worse, he will try to leave with a plan and no body attached to it.
I grab my extra phone charger. A black hoodie from the back of my chair. Two bottles of water from the fridge. A protein bar I bought three weeks ago and never ate. The spare baseball cap hanging by the door, because cameras are everywhere and Ryan McAllister in full panic is still Ryan McAllister to anyone with a lens.
It is not enough.
It is also what I have in ten minutes.
At the door, I turn back and grab the twins’ drawings from the counter.
I do not know why.
Then I do.
Because Ryan might need proof of the house he is leaving the ice to reach.
Twenty-two minutes later, I am at the media entrance, breathing hard in front of two security guards who do not care that I used to belong here.
“Ma’am, credentialed media only.”
“My name is Peyton Hayes. Ryan McAllister’s mother collapsed — it’s her heart, she’s in the ER four hours from here, and his family cannot reach him because his phone is off. You need to get Jennifer, Silas, Bob Hartley, or anyone with enoughauthority to understand what happens if this message dies at a door.”
The guard’s hand moves toward his radio.
“This is not about access,” I say. “This is a family emergency.”
“Ma’am, during active play we cannot—”
“Then do not take me to the bench. Take me to the person who can.”
He hesitates.
I step closer. Not past the line. Close enough that he has to see my face and decide whether the rule matters more than the message.
“His mother is in a hospital four hours from here and it is her heart,” I say. “His father is at the hospital with two terrified ten-year-olds. Ryan is on the ice because nobody has reached him. If you make this a credential problem, you own part of what happens next.”
The guard looks at me for one long second.
Then he lifts the radio.
“Need Jennifer at media entrance. Now.”
Three minutes later, Jennifer opens the door.
She does not ask for my credential. She does not mention the article. She only says, “Come with me.”
We move fast through hallways I know too well.
Concrete. Rubber flooring. The press room door. Equipment carts. The muffled roar of a playoff crowd beating against the walls like weather.
“He is on the ice?” I ask.
“Second period,” Jennifer says. “He is between shifts.”
“Does he know anything?”
