Unknown:For stepping back before he touched you.
Unknown:For remembering.
Unknown:For cruelty I didn’t deserve this morning when I told you not to wear red. I’m working on leaving your choices alone. I need your help.
The admission empties me of something heavy. I look down the rink toward the bench, to the spot where I’ve seen him fold into himself when the cameras try to read under his skin. There’s nothing there now—just the echo of skates and the Zamboni driver singing off-key to a country song.
Me:I didn’t step back for you.
Me:I stepped back for me.
Unknown:That’s why I thanked you.
I could live on that for hours.
Dad finds me in the office tapping a pen against the seating chart like the pen is going to give up a better arrangement if I shake it hard enough. He looks tired in a way that makes me want to fix the weather and the last five years.
“You with me?” he asks.
“Always,” I say, because sometimes the truth and the comfort line up.
“VIP table,” he says, and taps the chart. “I want you at it.”
He doesn’t have to say why: a sweet-faced event coordinator makes donors feel safe without making them feel handled. And if I’m at the VIP table, I’m not at the players’ table. If I’m not at the players’ table, I’m not near a man who can empty me with a glance.
“Okay,” I say, and I write my own name next to donors who will never text me a rule I want to follow. Dad nods like a general who found his formation.
As he turns to go, he hesitates, hand on the door, then says without looking at me, “You can say no to men who don’t understand the word.”
I could act offended. I could demand to know what he thinks he knows. Instead I say, simply, “I can. I will.”
He nods once. We both pretend we’re talking about donors.
By late afternoon, the rink air tastes like tired and peppermint. I walk the west hallway because I’m weak or brave or both. It’s empty. Of course it is. The hum is still there, though—the ballast, the memory, the part of me that knows I can make a cathedral out of any shadow if I stand still long enough.
In the lobby, a cardboard box sits on the check-in table with my name written in black marker in a hand that could belong to anyone who learned to write before phones made us lazy. I freeze. The ribbon presses a chime against my wrist.
I open the box. Navy knit gloves. Simple. Warm. Elegant in the way useful things are when you’re cold. There’s a note tucked into one finger, small and stubborn.
I shouldn’t smile. I do. I slip one glove on and let my fingers recognize care as something that doesn’t have to be an argument.
I put the other glove back in the box and close it, tucking it under the table like it belongs to no one yet. My phone buzzes.
Unknown:Don’t thank me.
Unknown:Or do. I’ll keep it.
I typeThank youanyway, because I grew up in a house where gratitude was said out loud even when it hurt.
When I finally leave for the night, the gloves sit in my coat pocket like a secret I’m allowed to enjoy. Snow is doing that gentle theatrical thing it does when it wants you to forgive everything. I walk to my car and let the cold pinprick my cheeks. My phone lights.
Unknown:Tonight. Don’t answer if not.
Unknown:Walk around the back of the building after closing. The door by the north exit will be unlocked. Ten minutes only. No one will see. If you don’t come, I won’t text again tonight.
I stop walking. It’s a simple sentence—if you don’t come, I won’t text again tonight—and it feels like a hand to my throat that isn’t choking, just reminding me of air.
Me:If this is about control, I’m out.
