Her heart.
Again.
My fingers shake on the skate laces.
I shove clothes on damp skin. Jeans over compression shorts. T-shirt. Hoodie. Shoes. My phone powers on in my hand and lights up with missed calls I was not allowed to hear because the world does what it always does when I build a wall.
It finds another way around.
Bill called Peyton.
That fact keeps moving through me like a blade turned slowly.
I step into the corridor with my bag over one shoulder.
Peyton waits against the wall, cap low, hands jammed in her sweatshirt pocket. She straightens when she sees me. Her eyes sweep over my face, down to the bag, back up.
No makeup. Hair tucked under the hat. Small bag at her feet. My extra hoodie under one arm, like she thought of me before I knew how to think about anything. A charger cord wrapped around her hand. Two water bottles visible in the side pocket.
She did not come here to deliver a message.
She came ready to take me.
She is scared.
She is also steady.
“My car is in the media lot,” she says. “Jennifer said they will leave it alone. We can take your truck.”
“Okay.”
Jennifer appears at the end of the hall. “Ryan.”
Her expression is pale under the arena lights. “I am sorry.”
I believe her.
That surprises me.
“Sully knows,” I say.
“Yes.” She nods. “Coach has Roman double-shifting with Evan. Colt is covering your defensive-zone starts. We are keeping the explanation to family emergency.”
Good.
That should make me feel better. It does not.
Bob Hartley steps from the side corridor before I reach the exit. For once, the owner does not look like he is calculating three moves ahead.
“Go,” Bob says. “We will handle the rest.”
I nod because I have no extra words.
Evan comes off the tunnel just as I reach the service doors, still in gear from the ice, sweat darkening his collar.
“Colt told us,” Evan says.
My grip tightens on the strap of my bag.
