He winks at Wren.“She thinks I’m pretty.”
“Sometimes,” she says, and he clutches his chest like she shot him.
Kael slides in behind them both, not laughing, not scowling, his version of pleased—which is to say the corners of his mouth move one millimeter.“Bus in fifteen,” he says to me, to Finn.To her: “You want a golf cart back to the lot or you walking with us?”
“Walking,” she says.
“Copy.”
We move as a clump through the tunnel—players peeling into the room, staff peeling off to jobs, the air changing from game to aftermath.I keep Wren between me and the wall because that’s where she likes to be when halls are crowded.Finn keeps her talking about the stupid play he pulled on that defender in the second because he knows talking raises her head.Kael keeps an ear on the radio because he likes knowing things before other people do.
At the mouth of the corridor that opens to the concourse, the noise swells again—fans leaving, vendors wheeling away popcorn carts, ushers stacking signs.Kael’s radio hisses.He pauses, listens, nods once.
“Ops swept 118 at the final,” he says.“No cap, no coat, no match.Cameras are being pulled to review before exit release.We’ll get a packet in the morning.”
Wren’s face shifts—relief wanting to be belief and not quite making it.“Okay,” she says.
“Okay,” I echo, meaning it differently: okay I will not sleep; okay I will memorize faces at the lot; okay I will do the small boring things that keep danger away because the big exciting things are just violence with worse odds.
We step out into the concourse river.People flow around us.A teenager in a Reapers jersey sees Finn and yelps; he signs the back with a Sharpie he produces like a magician.Kael thanks an usher by name because he knows those, too.I scan, scan, scan.
At the top of the ramp, Wren looks up—just once, quick—to Section 118.It’s empty now.Seats flipped.A forgotten drink sweating on the concrete.Nothing menacing about vacancy.It still makes my neck itch.
We hit the players’ lot.Security waves us through.Cold air bites the sweat on my neck and makes me feel human again.The bus idles with its lights on; it smells like rubber and leather and a season that’s longer than my patience.
Wren tugs her sweatshirt sleeves over her hands and turns her face to the night like she’s testing if the air will hurt.It doesn’t.She smiles a little to herself.
Finn bumps her shoulder with his.“Steak tips after?”he asks, like it’s a plan and not a wish.
Kael glances at me; my face says don’t leave her out here alone long enough to count it.He nods like I said it.“Yeah,” he answers for all of us.“After we debrief.”
Wren looks between us.“I’m okay.”
“You’re better,” I say, and the way her mouth softens tells me she hears what I mean: better is real.Better counts.Better isn’t alone.
I watch her climb the bus steps and choose a seat near the front where the light is good and the windows show reflections instead of dark.Finn follows, chattering about toe drags to a rookie who wants to be him.Kael lingers at the curb, eyes on the lot, doing his quiet captain math.
He looks at me without turning his head.“You good?”
“No,” I say.“But I’m steady.”
He grunts; that’s yes in Kael.“We’ll pull video tonight.”
“I know.”
He boards.I take one last scan of the lot—cars, faces, shadows that mean nothing—and climb after them.
Inside, Wren’s eyes meet mine for a half-second, and something in me finally settles enough to breathe all the way down.Not victory.Not peace.Just a place to put the part of me that’s been pacing since the second period.
I sit across the aisle and one row back, where she can see me without having to look for me and where I can see the door without having to leave my seat.
The bus lurches.The arena falls away.My heartbeat returns to normal by degrees.
He might have been there.He might not have.
Either way, he didn’t get to take the night.
Not this one.
