He grabbed his water. Drank. When he lowered the bottle, he dragged his thumb across his bottom lip, left to right, the same unconscious motion I'd seen him make on the bench between shifts.
I moved to the treadmill. Started a cool-down. Easy pace.
On the TV, they replayed my goal. Slow motion made it look even more chaotic.
Five minutes later, I stepped off the treadmill while Kieran wiped down the bench with a hotel towel.
We walked to the door together.
When the elevator arrived, we stepped in, side by side.
He pressed eight.
"Same floor."
"Yeah."
The doors closed. Kieran's shirt was damp with sweat, his hair pushed back from his forehead. We both watched the numbers climb.
I watched his hands. Long fingers. Calluses from stick tape and weightlifting. His thumb tapped once against his thigh.
The elevator dinged. Eight. Kieran stepped out first, and I followed.
He stopped at 826.
"Night, Donnelly."
"Night."
I stood in the hallway another beat before continuing to 823.
I'd barely been in my room for five minutes when my phone buzzed.
Kieran:Can't sleep.
Heath:Same.
Kieran:Wanted to make sure you were okay. Media can be tough.
I read it twice.
He was checking in on me. I considered leaving it there.
Instead, I typed:
Heath:The turtle you showed me. What was her name?
Kieran:Marina.
Heath:That's a good name.
Kieran:Rehab team named her. I just did the grunt work.
Heath:Grunt work that saved her life.
The response took a bit longer this time.
Kieran:Yeah. I guess it did.
