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"Yeah."

"Does he remember weird little things I tell him?"

"He remembers all of them."

She goes quiet.

"So..." I ask carefully.

She looks over at me, the corners of her mouth lifting.

She raises an eyebrow. "You're arguing awfully hard for this hypothetical guy."

"I'm his lawyer."

"His lawyer?"

"He couldn't make it."

She laughs. "I see."

"So?"

She sets the rest of her sandwich down.

"I think hypothetical hockey guy should probably stop hiding behind hypotheticals."

My pulse kicks.

"But..." She smiles. "If he's half as wonderful as his lawyer seems to think he is..."

She holds my gaze. "...I don't think he'd hear no."

I blink, trying—and failing—not to grin.

She notices immediately. "You look awfully pleased."

"I'm just happy for hypothetical hockey guy."

She rolls her eyes. "I somehow have a feeling hypothetical hockey guy looks a lot like you."

"I've heard we're similarly handsome."

I leave sometime after midnight. The hallway smells like somebody's dryer sheets, fabric softener thick enough to taste, and I walk to the elevator feeling like I got away with something I didn't earn yet.

My hand still remembers the shape of hers.

***

Waking up for practice takes willpower the next day.

The ice feels wrong under my skates before the whistle even blows. Too fast, or I'm too slow, hard to tell which. Jordan sends a pass through the neutral zone that I should read in my sleep, and I bite on the fake instead, watch the puck sail past me like it's got somewhere better to be.

"Larkin, wake up," Jordan calls, not even mad, just confused.

Second time I'm not even mad at myself for it, which is somehow worse.

The interference call comes on a drill that doesn't count for anything, a walkthrough rep where nobody's supposed to be finishing checks, and I still put my hip into Camden like it's Game 7. He goes down easy, more surprised than hurt, and looks up at me from the ice like I've grown a second head.