His attention cuts to Dante across the lobby. "He played well tonight."
"He plays well every night."
"The Voss-Maddox line." Marco says it like he's tasting something. "Your journalist wrote a piece about it. The transition chemistry. The passing accuracy. I read it three times."
He turns back to me with dark eyes. Dante's eyes, except where Dante's carry calculation, Marco's carry patience.
"The statistics are impressive," Marco says. "But what I saw tonight goes past statistics. The way he looks for you before he looks for the puck. You're good for him, Cole."
My grip adjusts at my side.
"He's good for me," I say.
"I know." Marco's mouth shifts. "He's a lot."
"Everyone worth knowing is a lot."
Marco studies me, his smile still in place while his eyes move over my face. "You've grown up well, Maddox," he says. "When you're in New York after graduation, call me. I'll take you both to dinner."
"Both?"
"You and Dante." His gaze slides across the lobby. "Bring Maya too. I've known her for years, but I'd like to get to know the journalist behind those pieces."
"What do you mean?"
"Like she sees what the scouts miss." Marco's smile returns. "He sends me everything she publishes."
He reaches into his jacket, produces a card, and slides it into my hand. Heavy stock presses against my palm, embossed withMarco Vossand a New York number.
"New number," he says. "Private line. The dinner offer is real. Anytime."
He claps my shoulder, the same gesture he used with Dante on the carpet, brief and physical.
"One more thing," he says, already turning.
"Yeah?"
"Dante's been carrying a lot alone for a long time. He shouldn't have to."
His eyes hold mine for one beat longer than the sentence requires.
"Make sure he doesn't."
He walks back toward Dante and the scout. I slip the card into my pocket.
Maya appears from the concession stand carrying two drinks, ice rattling softly in the cups.
She chooses the direct path past the tunnel and past Dante, the route that puts his body in her way. Across the tile, her boots click softly. Her shoulder passes close enough to almost brush his sleeve.
Her pace changes, slower and more measured, and her chin lifts. It is the same lift I saw on the carpet. The flush that climbed her neck in the dining hall is back, visible above the collar of her coat.
Dante's hand pauses mid-handshake with the scout. Half a second. His gaze tracks her across the lobby, and his jaw works once before he smooths it out. Then he finishes the handshake cleanly and keeps talking.
Maya keeps walking. She reaches Zoë near the windows and hands her one of the drinks, keeping the other. Zoë says something. Maya laughs. The sound carries across the lobby, and Dante's head turns a fraction.
Half an inch. Toward the laugh. Then back to the scout.
A beat reporter from the Globe approaches Maya near the windows. Young. Tie loosened. He angles toward her with the posture of a man starting a conversation he's been rehearsing. His hand extends. She takes it with her free hand, the badge on her lanyard catching the light.
