"That's not winning."
"Mathematically, it is."
"It's a fan poll on a hockey blog that probably also sells supplements."
"It's a fan poll about you." He elbowed me. "Embrace it. You've got a brand now. Chaos Boy. The Human Deflection. I'm workshopping names."
"Please stop."
"I will not."
I turned toward the window. Below us, the Midwest was a quilt of brown and rust, late October stripping the color out of everything.
"Hey." Varga's voice dropped half a register. He turned his comedy routine off like a faucet. "You good?"
I looked at him. His face had rearranged into something I hadn't seen before, direct, with no expectations. He'd noticed his teammate was somewhere else and was offering a door back without making it weird.
"Yeah. Tired."
The grin came back. "Cool. Because I have a developing thesis about airline pretzels that needs a witness, and you're contractually obligated."
I let him talk. My phone sat in my lap with a text thread glowing.
It was a new message.
Kieran:We should talk.
I didn't hesitate to type back.
Heath:Yeah.
Heath:Not at your place.
Kieran:No.
His building had a doorman and cameras in the lobby. It was impossible to know whomight scoursecurity reels.
Heath:My place.
Kieran:Safer.
I locked the phone. And then, against every piece of logic I had left, I looked.
Three rows back, across the aisle. Kieran had his phone face down. Headphones in, and looking at me.
The plane banked. Varga grabbed his armrest. "Jesus—"
O'Hare spit us out into late-afternoon gray, a Chicago in October sky that didn't commit to rain or clearing. It hung there, pressing the city flat.
The parking structure was underground. My car was on level two, Kieran's on three. Between them, the ramp curved past a blind spot, a pillar with bad lighting.
He was standing there. Phone out. He'd positioned himself in the one place that didn't have witnesses.
"Hey."
"Hey." He pocketed the phone. "Text me when you're free."
When, notif.
