At the next stop, a staffer waves Jennifer over before the doors have fully opened. Jennifer gives me a look that says, “Do not make paperwork with your face,” then steps out.
The doors close.
Ryan and I are alone.
The elevator hums downward.
I look at the numbers above the door because looking at him feels too much like admitting the air has changed.
“You take notes during practice,” he says.
“I am a reporter.”
“You stopped writing during the shift-change drill.”
My head turns before I can stop it.
He is watching me now. Not the notebook. Not the badge. Me.
“You were busy,” I say.
“Still noticed.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“It is useful.”
“For hockey?”
His eyes flick to my mouth, then back, with irritating discipline. “Not always.”
The elevator seems to shrink around us.
I can smell soap and cold air under clean fabric. I can see a bruise along his wrist where the tape does not quite cover it. I want to ask if it hurts. I want to know whether he would answer honestly. I want a lot of things that belong nowhere near a profile outline.
“You should watch yourself,” he says.
The same warning. Softer this time. Worse.
“With the story?”
“With what you think you see.”
I look at him fully then. “Maybe you should watch what you let me see.”
The elevator doors open on the service level.
Neither of us moves.
Then Ryan steps back first, giving me room to pass.
It should feel like victory.
It feels like a delay.
As I walk out, his voice follows me.
“Peyton.”
