My mouth remembered before I did.
It came back with me standing in a hotel bathroom in my boxers with toothpaste foam on my chin.
I spat. Rinsed. Stood there with both hands on the sink. My left shoulder was stiff from a hit I barely remembered taking. I rolled it once, and the soreness pulled across my chest.
Underneath it, like a second bruise, the memory of Kieran's mouth adjusting against mine.
It was the same face in the mirror. Freckles, a scar through the eyebrow, and hair staging its daily rebellion.
The hotel restaurant was louder than it should've been for seven-fifteen. Round tables and white cloths plus the clatter of guys who'd lost ugly and were working through the stages of grief via mounds of food from the buffet.
Varga held court at the center table, gesturing with a fork that still had egg on it. Rook sat two seats down, eating oatmeal.
I poured myself black coffee and loaded a plate with whatever my hand touched first.
Kieran sat at the far end of the room, back straight, and jaw freshly shaved. I sat across from him. Two place settings and a basket of English muffins between us.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning." He only looked up briefly, and his gaze landed somewhere around my left ear.
"Sleep okay?" he asked.
"Fine."
"Good."
Varga dropped into the chair beside me. "Donnelly. Rate the eggs. Scale of one to ten."
"Haven't tried them."
"Six at best. Seven if you add hot sauce, but the hot sauce here tastes like someone described Tabasco to AI and the AI did its best."
I ate. The eggs were actually a five.
From across the room, Rook's gaze drifted our way. A single pass. It was the same scan he ran before a faceoff. He returned to his oatmeal as primary focus.
Cross arrived late and sat beside Kieran. He ate in silence until he asked something about the contract buzz. Then, he turned to me and mentioned my net-front positioning in the second period.
After breakfast, we headed for the bus to the airport. "Critical question," Varga said, dropping into the seat beside me. "Window or aisle?"
"Window."
"Wrong. Aisle gives you leg freedom. Strategic bladder access. Emergency extraction options when Pratt snores, which he will."
I let Varga's endless monologue carry me through the terminal. It was a small, bright, regional airport that smelled like floor wax and Cinnabon.
Kieran walked thirty feet ahead with Cross. He shortened his stride to match Cross's pace without appearing to adjust. Everything he did had that quality. Seamless.
On the plane, Kieran boarded after Rook, walking past my row without a pause, and settling three rows back on the opposite side. His face was blank, a wall of clean angles.
Two nights ago, on another bus, our knees had touched. He'd shown me a photo of a sea turtle named Marina, and his thumb had brushed my wrist as he angled the phone.
Now, we had a gap of fifteen feet and a Varga-shaped buffer between us.
Varga pivoted from hotel rankings to the rivalry narrative.
"You see the updated article? Some blog's running a poll.Mathers or Donnelly: Who starts Game 10?You're winning. Sixty-three percent."
