The rest of the flight drifts by in low chatter, muffled laughter, and the glow of phones.
When we land, the cold Seattle air hits sharp, clean—a mix of rain and jet fuel. The guys stretch and chirp on the tarmac before filing toward the bus.
“You limping or milking it?” Dalton mutters as I step down.
“Keep talking,” I say, “and I’ll make you do wall sits for warmup tomorrow.”
He laughs, clapping my shoulder before heading up the steps.
Inside, the bus hums with playoff energy: playlists blaring, Torres trying to convince half the team to switch to his weird pre-game smoothie routine. I sit near the front beside David. He glances at my brace, then at me.
“Feels right having you back,” he says quietly.
I nod. “Feels good to be back.”
The hotel lobby smells like coffee and carpet cleaner. It’s barely six. We check in, dump our bags, and head straight to dinner. It’s loud and easy, the kind of chaos I’ve missed. Not the same as lacing up, but close enough for now.
“You ready for the first game of Round 2 tomorrow, Torres?” Dalton calls down the table.
Torres grins. “Born ready, old man.”
“Cocky little shit,” Dalton mutters.
The guys laugh, and I shake my head. “Keep chirping, kid. Just don’t trip over it.”
Laughter rolls down the table again — easy, alive.
Across the room, Charlie’s head tips back as she laughs at something Vic says, her hand brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. My chest tightens like I took a hit I didn’t brace for.
As the plates clear and the conversation splinters, the table hums with that familiar pre-series buzz — half superstition, half nerves. I lean back, knee aching just enough to remind me I’m still not where I want to be.
David elbows me lightly. “How does it feel to be back on the road?”
“Feels good,” I say, and mean it. “We need this one, and I’m glad I’m here for it.”
When the guys peel off toward the elevators, a few linger to grab waters or razz the rookies. I make my way to the back, slow but steady, exchanging nods and quick jokes on the way.
Charlie’s talking with Dan near the exit. I catch her eye for half a second — long enough to feel it — before she looks away.
I think about walking over, about sayinggoodnight, but my knee twinges and my nerve falters. Instead, I head for the elevator.
In my room, the quiet hits hard. I ice my knee, flip through game notes, tell myself I’m just doing my captain’s prep.
Then my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
When I see it’s Charlie, the last thing on my mind is the game tomorrow.
Hey—just realized I still have your compression sleeve. Want me to bring it to you?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I text her back:
No need. I’ll grab it. What room?
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Her reply comes a second later:
