The Dragons return home to face the Chicago Grizzlies.
As the locker room cleared, I lingered alone for a moment, still in half my gear, helmet on the bench beside me. No one heard what I muttered under my breath, quiet enough for the reporters’ recorders to miss:
“Next time he opens his mouth, I’ll make him eat his own stick.”
Phoenix
I’d told myself I didn’t care. I told myself I cared so little I wasn’t even going to watch the game.
I lied. Of course I watched it. I watched the whole damn thing, hunched on Cole’s expensive couch with a glass of tap water and a bowl of noodles I’d heated up myself, because I'd never learned to cook anything that wasn't in a can or a packet.
I didn’t even bother with the lights. I just sat there in the dark, flickering blue and white and the sound of the commentators echoing around the empty apartment. There was a weird comfort in it, like I’d found some secret way to be invisible. And I was rooting for them, even though I told myself I didn’t care. But the first time they mentioned Cole’s name, my insides tightened and I had to grab the pillow and hug it to my chest.
He was so fucking good. I wasn’t an expert or anything, but even I could see the way he owned the ice, the way the other players watched him. They looked to him for everything. He set up plays and broke them apart, and when he lost that opening face-off, I actually swore out loud, which was stupid, but I did it anyway.
But then the Sentinels started getting dirty. I saw it in the way they moved, all elbows and cheap shots. The cameras zoomed in on Cole and the other guy, Marchand, jawing at each other over the face-off dot. I knew that look. I’d seen it on the street ahundred times—the guy who wanted to push every button just to see if you’d break.
And Cole did break. He shoved him, hard, right in front of everyone. The ref’s whistle was like a gunshot.
Two minutes for roughing.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, not sure why it hurt so much to watch. I wanted him to win. I wanted him to not be the guy in the penalty box, shoulders hunched and jaw tight, face blank like it didn’t matter. Because I’d seen what that blank face looked like up close, and I knew exactly how much it hurt.
The Sentinels scored. The commentators blamed Armstrong. They didn’t even try to hide it.
He came out of the box and played like a man possessed. I could see it, the way he moved, skating harder than anyone else, setting up plays, but it didn’t matter. They lost anyway. The last goal was an empty-netter, and all I could think was how he was probably blaming himself for every second of it.
The commentary after the game was brutal. They called him the reason they lost. Said he couldn’t keep his head. Said he was a liability if he couldn’t control himself.
I wanted to punch the screen.
But when they showed him for the interview, still in half his gear, helmet off and hair damp with sweat, I just felt tired. He looked so alone, sitting there with his gloves in his lap. Like he was waiting for someone to tell him it was okay, even though he’d never believe it.
I stayed on the couch until well after midnight, watching highlights and interviews and replays until my eyes hurt. At some point, when I went to bed, I realized my hand was pressed over the spot where the envelope of cash was hidden under my pillow, like I was holding it in case some goon came through the door and tried to take it back. I watched the miserable way Cole stared at his own hands like he’d never seen them before, like maybe if he looked hard enough, he could erase the entire night. I hated thinking about how he’d take that loss. I hatedthinking about how I was the reason he’d been distracted in the first place.
Stupid, really. But it hurt. No sense pretending it didn’t.
I couldn’t sleep. Not even a little. The inside of my mouth was raw from where my teeth had cut the skin, but more than that, my head wouldn’t shut up. I’d been given money to betray him, but all I wanted was to fix one thing for him, just one, like maybe that would balance out the scales for all the shit I’d brought down on him. At least I could cheer for him. At least I could make sure he came home to something better than the static silence of his perfect apartment.I made a list. I actually made a list, which was pathetic, but it gave my hands something to do. I googled what top athletes ate after games. Protein. Carbs. Hydration. I had no clue if Cole liked half the stuff on the lists, but I figured anything was better than nothing. I took inventory of his fridge, careful to keep the lights low so I didn’t trigger the headache lurking behind my eyes. There was enough to make chicken and pasta, and I could definitely manage to make that. I made a note to wash every dish so he wouldn’t walk in and see a mess.
I even made up the couch so he’d have a place to crash if he was too tired to get to his room. I stripped the sheets off my bed, too, because I’d bled on them the first night, and put them in the washer. By the time I was done, it was nearly three in the morning and I still wasn’t tired. I just sat there, staring at the dark city through the windows, wondering how I’d ever gotten here.
He got back at nine am. I heard the click of the door and my chest went tight. I didn’t know if he’d want to see me. Maybe he’d just go straight to his room and lock the door. I didn’t plan on moving from the couch. I’d made my bed, literally, and I was going to stay there until he kicked me out.
But he didn’t.
He came in, set his bag down, and just stood there for a second, staring at the floor like he was trying to remember what came next. He looked so tired, the kind of tired that lived in your bones, not just your muscles. The kind I’d carried for years, but it didn’t suit him. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what. So I just sat there, silent, and waited. He noticed the food on the counter first. The plate I’d made up, still covered with foil to keep it warm. He peeled it back, just a little, and then I saw his shoulders drop, like maybe he could finally let go of holding onto the defeat.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just kept his head down, hands braced on the kitchen counter. The silence felt like a living thing, breathing between us. I hated it. I hated that he looked so tired, like someone had wrung all the hope right out of him. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
I stood. “You need to eat something.” I didn’t even try to sound gentle. I just walked over, opened the foil on the plate and shoved it toward him, then fixed a glass of water. “And don’t say you’re not hungry. You barely ate yesterday.”
He looked at me, green eyes dark with exhaustion, but didn’t argue. Just sat at the counter and started eating, like it was easier to obey than fight me. Maybe it was. Maybe he was just that tired.
He didn’t say a word. Just ate, slow and steady, clearing the plate like he hadn’t tasted real food in weeks. I stayed on the other side of the counter, arms folded, trying not to stare but not able to look away either.
When he finished, I pushed the glass of water toward him. He drained it in three gulps. I grabbed the painkillers Nancy had left out, shook two into my palm, and put them next to the glass I refilled. “Take these. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
He took the pills, swallowing them without comment. Then he just sat there, elbows braced on the counter, eyes fixed on the far wall. Like if he stared hard enough he could disappear into it.
