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“I know a bad entry.”
“Based on?”
“You lost the puck.”
“That’s results-based analysis.”
“It is still analysis.”
He pauses it. I point at the screen.
“There. You should have moved it earlier.”
“To who?”
“Ryan.”
“Covered.”
“He is not covered.”
“That lane closes in half a second.”
“You had half a second.”
Colt turns toward me. “You want my job?”
“No.”
“You watched it.”
It is not a question, so I do not answer it, and he hears that I do not, and something goes across his face that he does not bother to put away.
He reaches for the remote with his left hand.
Stops.
Uses the right.
His eyes meet mine.
The questions arrive automatically. Numbness. Tingling. Grip. Duration.
I let them go.
His phone lights on the coffee table and both of us look at it.
Mack.
Not Silas.
Something changes in Colt’s face. Barely. Barely is enough now.
The screen goes dark before he reaches for it.
“You are not answering?”
“He’ll keep.”
