Paul finally looks over at me. “Exactly.”
Montreal scores on a rebound. Ugly. Effective.
“Goaltender leaves his blocker low when he drops,” Paul adds. “Second chances are there if you don’t overthink it.”
I grunt and file it away.
Silence settles again, broken only by the broadcast. This is the part Paul’s best at. Not talking. Watching. Seeing patterns before they hurt you.
He lets a complete shift play out before speaking again.
“And one more thing,” he says.
I glance over.
“They’ll try to get in your head early. Not just physically. Talking. Smiling. Acting like they know you.”
I snort. “They don’t.”
Paul’s mouth twitches. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t give them a reaction they can use.”
I nod. Again.
Montreal clears the zone. Paul relaxes back into his chair, satisfied for now. He finally glances at me, slow and deliberate.
“Now,” he says, “tell me why you came in here looking like you were trying to outrun something.”
And just like that, hockey is no longer the most dangerous thing in the room. He doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Jesus, AK,” he says likeTsarinadoes, which means he clocked something at the rink earlier. “Tell me you didn’t go hunting for a hookup looking like that.”
I snort, “You think this is ahuntingoutfit?”
Paul finally glances over, eyes sharp despite the hour. “I think it’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
I peel the hoodie off and set it next to me, and my shirt sticks for a second before letting go. “I went skating.”
“You left here at seven, it’s ten,” he replies.
“I needed real ice, not the show pony variety.”
“Uh-huh.” He gestures at the screen with his chin. “So, you decided to go beat yourself instead of relaxing when you have a game tomorrow.”
I grab a towel and wipe my face. “I don’t work that way.”
“Either does the sassy one,” he states.
I don’t even have to ask who the sassy one is.
Montreal misses a shot. Paul curses softly, like it’s a reflex.
“You eat?” he asks.
“No.”
He sighs. “There’s chili.”
“I don’t want chili.”
