“Fine.”
Her smile wins. Full.
It hits me harder than the horn did. My chest goes tight before she even touches me.
“It was incredible. He was incredible. You were both incredible. I screamed so loud the woman next to me spilled her beer.”
“That’s the best review we’ve ever gotten,” I say.
She takes one step forward, then another. Across the concourse of TD Garden, with the arena emptying and the cleaning crews working and the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, she closes the distance between us. She steps between us and puts one hand on my chest, one hand on Dante’s. Her palms flatten over our heartbeats.
“Take me home,” she says. “Both of you.”
Chapter 33
Maya
The hotel room has one king bed.
Cole’s planning is all over it.
The team block at the Marriott has the players doubled up, Cole and Dante in a standard room with two queens, the coaching staff down the hall, and the training staff on the floor below. My room is the second one, booked under my name, with my press credential and my own credit card. Fourteenth floor. Corner. City view. One king bed booked off the team block, away from the rooms everyone knows exist.
Friday night. The championship is tomorrow.
I’ve been here for an hour. My laptop is open on the desk, and the semifinal analysis is half-filed. The lede is clean, the Gio goal is the centerpiece, and I need three hundred more words on the defensive adjustments Addison made in the third period beforeI can send it. The cursor blinks at the end of a sentence about Michigan’s failed zone entry. My notes are spread across the desk in the only system that has ever worked for me: three pens, two highlighters, and the recorder I abandoned months ago and still carry.
Boston sits fourteen floors below the window. The city lights are cold and sharp. Last night’s arena noise still lives in my ribs, along with the glass beneath my palm when Gio scored and the concourse where I put my hands on their chests and felt both hearts hammering.
My phone buzzes.
Cole: What floor?
Fourteenth. Corner room. Don’t forget the key card I gave you.
The hallway is quiet enough that the elevator gives them away first.
Mechanical hum. Doors opening. Two sets of footsteps coming toward me in a rhythm I could identify blindfolded. Cole’s stride is longer, always a half-step too eager. Dante’s is more deliberate, each step landing with the same measured weight.
Together, the rhythm is theirs.
The door opens.
Cole comes in first, showered, with his hair still damp at the edges, wearing a gray T-shirt and sweats. The gym bag hangs over his shoulder until he drops it near the headboard without looking. His eyes land on me at the desk, and his shoulders drop like he has been holding his breath since the elevator.
Dante is behind him in a black T-shirt, the collar sitting low enough to show the hollow of his throat. His bag goes on the luggage rack, centered, strap tucked in.
“Story filed?” Cole asks.
“Three hundred words short. I need the third-period adjustments.”
“Addison shortened the bench. Ran three lines instead of four. Gave Gio the extra minutes on our line.” Cole sits on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dips differently than ours. Softer. Hotel soft. Luxury for one night, a back problem by next week.
“And the zone entry change?”
“Switched from a controlled breakout to a stretch pass off the first touch. Michigan’s forecheck was overloading the weak side. The stretch beat it.” He leans back on his hands. “That’s all on the game tape. Rewinding can give you that.”
“I know. But you explain it faster than I can rewind.”
