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"First time playing there as a pro." He finds the sock, yanks it on standing on one foot, doesn't quite look at me when he says it. "Real ice. Cold enough it actually feels like hockey."

"You don't like the cold?"

"Love the cold." A beat too fast, a beat too careful. "Love it."

It's small, and I almost miss it, but I add it to the profile I'm building. Same with the way the duffel explodes across the bed and the charger cords end up in a tangled mess.

“You're a walking disaster,” I tell him. “You know that, right?”

He grins over his shoulder, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “And yet, here you are, helping me.”

“I'm helping your dog.”

“Ouch. But okay, fine. I’ll allow it.”

He zips the duffel and drags it off the bed. It lands with a thud that makes Pickles's head snap up from where he's still sprawled across my knees, tail going before the rest of him catches up.

"He's gonna act like this is the worst thing that's ever happened to him," Wyatt says, jerking his chin at the dog. "The second I walk out that door, total betrayal. Give him ten minutes, he'll forget my name."

"Comforting."

"I try." He checks his phone, swears under his breath at whatever the screen tells him, and starts moving again, faster now, like the two hours just became less of them.

"Wait—keys." He's halfway through shrugging into his jacket when he stops, pats his pockets, comes up with a ring. "Here. He'll be easier if he's in his own space. Less anxious."

I stare at the keys dangling from his fingers. "You expect me to stay here?"

"Why not?"

"Because I have a place. Of my own. With my own things."

“You also have a dog now.” He tosses the keys, and I catch them on reflex. “And Pickles is sensitive to new environments. You can return the key when I get home.”

As if summoned, Pickles shifts his weight, presses his chin harder into my knee, and looks up at me with eyes that belong on a Victorian mourning card.

Fantastic.

"Fine."

"I'll be back." He's already moving toward the door. "Scout's honor."

"Were you a Scout?"

"God, no."

"Great. Super reassuring."

He grins, quick and crooked, and something in my chest pulls sideways. "Leave before I change my mind," I tell him, and he does.

6

WYATT

Man’s Best Wingman

The plane hits a pocket of turbulence somewhere over Michigan and Camden’s mouth actually stops moving for a solid ten seconds. Dmitri crosses himself. Somebody two rows back says a word that gets him a look from the flight attendant.

By the time we land, taxi, and drag ourselves through the hotel lobby, it’s pushing midnight and my legs feel like they belong to somebody else.