I'd played well. Scored. Executed perfectly.
But somehow, I'd helped build a cage slowly closing around both of us.
My phone buzzed.
Heath:I can still feel it.
Simple. Direct.
I looked at my wrist. The skin still felt warm where his fingers had been.
Kieran:Good. Don't stop.
Chapter five
Heath
Iwoke before my alarm.
Already wired. Body keyed like the ice was waiting, even though wheels-up was six hours out.
I remembered the hallway before I made it to the bathroom. My fingers around Kieran's wrist, sleeve ridden up. How he'd stopped moving.
When I returned, my phone sat face up on the nightstand. The text thread from last night was still open.
I can still feel it.
Good. Don't stop.
I read both lines again. Waited for them to rearrange into something less combustible.
They didn't.
I set the phone face down.
Whatever happened in that hallway lodged in the center of my chest and stayed.
Time for my shower and gear check.
It was a travel day to Detroit. My first extended road trip as a rostered player.
No time to process. Only momentum.
The airport security line moved fast. With team credentials around my neck, TSA waved me through.
I'd gone on two road trips during the preseason. Still half-expected someone to check the manifest, spot the clerical error, and pull me aside.
My name was there: DONNELLY, H.
Between CROSS, J. and MARKEL, I. (coaching staff).
Alphabetically inevitable. Still faintly impossible.
"Donnelly!"
Varga caught up. Broad shoulders, soft in places where conditioning hadn’t sanded everything down yet, beard trimmed but not fussed over. He looked like someone who belonged anywhere people sweated for a living.
"—Detroit's airport is psychological warfare. You walk forty-five minutes through tunnels designed by someone who specifically hates natural light, and then you arrive at a gate that's identical to the one you left. Recursive nightmare architecture. I'm convinced the planning department is three guys in a basement getting high and studying Escher prints—"
