Morning skate is light—systems work, no contact, keep the legs moving after travel.
I run my crease rotations with the focused efficiency of a man whose body knows the job even when his brain is being an asshole.
My brain’s being an asshole.
She’s in the press area. I know this without looking. I’ve known where she is in every building she’s been in since the first practice.
I’ve stopped fighting it. That’s not the same thing.
She’s talking to Brody again. Brody, who looks unreasonably awake for six a.m. and is already doing the thing with his hands that means he’s telling a story he has no business telling a journalist.
“You’re going to get us all in trouble,” I tell him when he skates past.
“I’m building relationships,” Brody says.
“You’re giving her material.”
“Same thing.”
I turn back to the net and run the drill.
Then she comes to the boards during the water break, recorder out, notebook ready, those green eyes giving absolutely nothing away.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I say.
She pauses like she might add something.
Doesn’t.
Moves on to Sebastian.
I watch her go.
That should help.
It does not help.
I turn back to the net and do my job.
The charter home is quieter than the one out. Post-game tiredness settling over everything.
Brody’s asleep before we hit cruising altitude. Liam has his eyes closed—probably not sleeping, just done talking for the day.
She’s in the aisle seat across from me.
Working. Laptop open. Earbuds in.
Not looking at me.
I have one earbud in. Same song I’ve listened to before games since I was nineteen.
I don’t know why I started. I don’t examine why I keep going.
Some things you don’t touch.
She glances up once.
