“No.” His eyes stay on the wall. “It’s not.”
A long second.
Then another.
I keep waiting for movement that never comes.
“I don’t know what you want me to do with that,” I say quietly.
He looks down at his hands. Flexes them once. Stops.
“Sit here,” he says.
That hits harder than if he yelled.
I look at him.
He still hasn’t stood up.
Still hasn’t looked away.
Still here.
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I do the only thing I’ve got.
I stay where I am.
The story drops an hour later.
I know because my phone lights up and doesn’t stop.
Both our names. Every sports outlet, and accounts with blue checks and bad opinions.
The V. North angle exactly the way Webb said it would land — journalist sleeping with subject, pen name revealed, conflict of interest, career ethics questions. The facts are twisted. The framing is wrong. None of that matters because it’s out there now and Jax is sitting on the crate next to me, reading. His thumb goes still on the edge of his phone.
Riley: My office. 8AM. Don’t speak to anyone first.
He reads the message over my shoulder. Doesn’t say a thing.
The city is celebrating above us — 2–0 in the Cup Final, a sold-out building full of people who believed before it was reasonable.
The trophy is still two wins away.
He hasn’t moved.
I’m sitting in a tunnel with everything I should have done differently and every version of this I could have chosen and the specific exhausting truth that I have been making the same choice since I was eight years old and I said I didn’t want to pack and I packed anyway.
Just differently.
Just with secrets instead of suitcases.
He’s still here.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I sit there for a long time.
