Page 169 of Power Play

Then I grabbed my keys.

I didn’t text Ryan.

That mattered.

If he knew I was coming, I could tell myself I had only gone because he wanted me there. If he told me to stay home, I could use his schedule as permission to keep hiding.

I wanted to reach him before fear found another person to blame for my decision.

The drive felt endless.

Every mile gave my anxiety another opportunity to tell me how stupid I was being. I imagined reaching the hotel and finding him surrounded by teammates. I imagined security refusing to let me upstairs. I imagined Ryan looking at me with the same wounded anger he had worn when I accused him of sleeping with other women.

Several times, I almost called him.

I didn’t.

His messages continued anyway.

Around six, my phone lit up in the holder beside the dashboard.

Ryan: Headed to the arena. I know you’re still pissed. Still thinking about you.

I swallowed hard and kept driving.

The map had already pushed my arrival time back twice. Traffic thickened near every city, and construction turned long stretches of the highway into a crawl. By the time the game began, I was still hours away.

I found the Frost radio broadcast on my phone and listened while the dark road unrolled in front of me.

Hearing Ryan’s name made the distance feel worse.

The announcer called him El Cuchillo after a hard hit near the boards and again when he assisted on the Frost’s second goal. I imagined him moving across the ice with the controlled violence I had watched from the stands, his body becoming something fearless the moment his skates touched the rink.

Ryan probably didn’t feel fearless either. He moved anyway. The thought stayed with me as I drove.

At nine fifty-two, while I was still nearly an hour outside Chicago, another message appeared.

Ryan: Won 4–2. I was insufferable. You would have loved it.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He was telling me about his day even while I refused to give him mine.

At ten twenty, he tried again.

Ryan: I’m assuming you’re asleep or committed to emotionally torturing me.

I laughed for the first time since my mother arrived. The sound broke into tears before I could stop it, but I kept my attention on the road.

“I’m coming,” I whispered to the empty car. “Just give me a little longer.”

Chicago traffic nearly killed whatever nerve I had left. The closer I got to the hotel, the more violently my thoughts turned against the decision. I had driven across state lines without telling him. He might think I was being dramatic. He might already be asleep. He might be too angry to see me, or he might look at me and decide the last three days had been easier without me.

My palms grew damp against the steering wheel.

I opened the granola bar at a red light and forced myself to take a bite. My stomach protested immediately, but I chewed and swallowed before wrapping the rest and setting it beside my water bottle.

The small act didn’t make me feel strong.

It only reminded me I was still moving.