Page 29

"I'm Cal Hendricks. I work here." He stops at a polite distance. "Daniil Reznik asked me to find you."

For several seconds I can’t even process what he’s said. My mind conjures a comic-strip panel of question marks; my mouth is dry, stuck somewhere between horror and laughter. There’s no explanation for why Daniil Reznik—of all possible people—would know or care about my current situation. We aren’t friends. We aren’t even acquaintances.

I glance over Hendricks’s shoulder, half-expecting to see Reznik in person, looming in the corridor or peeking around a pillar. Instead, there’s only the usual airport chaos: a rolling tide of travelers, luggage, and staff. It strikes me that if this is a prank, it’s both elaborate and unnecessary, given the circumstances.

“Daniil Reznik?”

It's been four days since I last saw him at JFK. Four days since he'd told me to DM him if I needed anything, and four days in which I hadn't sent him a single message. But I certainly did look up as much information on him as I could until my headache worsened.

"What did he want?" I ask.

"He saw the posts about you being here. He asked me to check whether you were still at the airport." Cal reaches for his phone. "He made me a video to show you. Figured that might be better than expecting you to trust a stranger."

"Good thinking."

He opens the video.

Rez fills the screen, standing beside a vehicle in a dark coat. His hair is slightly mussed, and there's a hint of stubble along his jaw. He looks like someone interrupted his evening, not someone who got dressed to make an impression.

Somehow, that makes it worse.

I've seen the man in person. I know what he looks like. I've also seen the photographs, the videos, the social media clips that have contributed to his reputation. None of that means I should be paying attention to his mouth when he's about to tell me something practical.

"Anna," he says. "It's Rez. I saw the posts saying you're stranded at O'Hare. Cal's a friend of mine. He'll take you to the service entrance on the lower level, and I'll pick you up there. The storm has grounded international departures, so I don't think you're going anywhere tonight. I've got somewhere you can stay. If you'd rather make your own arrangements, that's fine. Your call."

The video ends.

I look at Cal. "He's waiting outside?"

"He's waiting right now. I can take you down, and you can decide for yourself when you see him.”

My options were a questionable airport motel or the man whose supporters had sent me to the ER. It wasn’t much of a choice. Rez had spoken out in my defense after what happened in Brooklyn. I knew Lenzin, for all the on-ice animosity, thought well of him. And I remember the way Rez had looked at me at JFK—not blank or performative, but focused, like he was actually seeing me and not just the girl in the split jersey.

None of that matters right now. I was exhausted, stranded, and far too practical to romanticize a simple offer of help.

Still, it was a decent thing to do. I could always change my mind once I laid eyes on him. "Alright.”

Cal leads me through a back corridor, down a service stairwell that smells of stale coffee and floor wax. We emerge beside an unmarked door. Cal exchanges a nod with another employee in a high-vis vest before pushing it open.

Cold air hits my face. Parked at the curb was a matte-black Mercedes G-Wagon, blocky and imposing, like something that would scoff at a blizzard.

The driver’s side opens. Rez unfolds himself from the seat—tall, solid, wearing a heavy coat left open over a dark shirt. His jeans are worn in just enough to make me look a second too long before I catch myself and met his gaze.

No arena roar. No cameras. Just the two of us in the sharp quiet of the winter air.

A muscle flexes in his jaw and he stills it. “Anna.”

“Rez.”

Something moves behind his eyes when they land on the stitches—quick and controlled, the way a person looks when they've trained themselves not to react. “How's your head?”

"Better." I give a small dismissive shrug not liking the attention on that spot. "Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"A concussion doesn't rewrite your entire personality. Apparently, I'm still impatient." I rub my arms up and down to warm myself up.

The corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile, but something quieter, more personal. I hadn't expected to pull that from him. The sight of it lands somewhere warm and unexpected in my chest, well, mostly.