"That thing. Taking care of people when they don't even know they need it."
"Kid's twenty-one and hammered. Someone needs to."
"Most people would let him make his own mistakes."
"Yeah, well." I shrug. "He's got practice tomorrow."
The check comes. We split it without discussion—same as always.
Phil catches my arm on the way out. "Saturday. Eight a.m."
"I'll be there."
"Good." He squeezes once, lets go. "Rachel's making her breakfast burritos after. You're staying for those."
"That a request or an order?"
"That's me telling you that if you pull your disappearing act, my wife will hunt you down. And she's scarier than I am."
Taylor and Webb are already arguing about the Uber route. Phil herds them toward the car.
I watch them go—Taylor still talking, Webb tolerating it, Phil making sure everyone gets home.
The scrape of my blades carving into fresh ice is a sound I’ve known my whole life, but this morning, it’s background noise. I glide backward, pivot loose, and then it hits me—sandalwood and wine.
The cellar. Her eyes. The dim gold light on her cheekbone.
I miss the edge on my turn. My skates stutter against the ice before I recover.
A slow smile starts to form—and then my phone buzzes on the bench. Once. Again. A third time. Urgent.
I coast over, the vibration rattling against the boards. A mass text alert.
Coach Kowalski
MANDATORY all-hands meeting: team and staff.
Conference Room C.
10 minutes.
The smile is gone. Ten-minute notice means someone’s in the crosshairs.
The walk from the rink to the conference hall is a pressure drop. The usual chirps from the equipment guys are replaced by tight jaws and low murmurs. In the hall, the air is stale, recycled. I find a seat with the other vets. My eyes scan the room automatically. I find her—three rows up.
Sloane.
She glances back, just once. Her posture is military-rigid, eyes unreadable. But I feel it—the same tightness cinching my chest is written all over her.
Then Kowalski steps to the podium.
The hum in the room cuts to silence.
He grips the mic with white knuckles. “There are rumblings,” he says, voice gravel over steel. “Distractions.”
I go still.
“My philosophy has always been to protect this team. From now on, it’s not a philosophy.”
