I started the truck and pulled back onto the road. The headlights cut through the dark, and the heater kicked on, blowing stale air that smelled like dust and old coffee.
Joel stared out the passenger window. I couldn't see his face.
The main road was maybe ten minutes away. I drove slower than I needed to, taking the curves easy, and I didn't know if I was hoping he'd say something or dreading it.
When I hit the intersection, I pulled over and put the truck in park. The road was empty in both directions, just us and the desert and the distant glow of Albuquerque on the horizon.
"This work?" I asked.
He didn't move to get out. His hand was on the door handle, but he wasn't pulling it, just sitting there staring straight ahead like he was working through something.
"This doesn't have to be a thing," he said finally.
"Robert," I said.
He turned to look at me. "What?"
"My name. It's Robert." I shrugged, trying to make it casual even though my heart was pounding. "Red's just the hair."
I didn't know why I told him. Maybe because he'd just had his mouth on me and it seemed wrong for him to only know my nickname. Maybe because I wanted to give him something real, something the guys at Alibi never got. Maybe I just wanted him to have a piece of me that wasn't about hockey or hookups or any of the bullshit we were both pretending this was.
"Robert," he said, like he was trying it out.
"I'll see you Monday," I said. "Five a.m."
"Sure." He opened the door, and the cold rushed in as he got out. He walked a few feet in front of the truck before his phone lit up and he glanced back at me. "Go home, Red."
"I'm making sure you don't get murdered on the side of the road."
"How chivalrous."
"I'm a gentleman."
His mouth twitched, almost a smile.
The Uber showed up a few minutes later. He opened the back door, then looked at me one more time through the windshield.
He didn't say anything. Neither did I.
He got in and the car pulled away. I watched the taillights until they disappeared over the hill, two red dots swallowed up by the dark.
Then I put the truck in drive and headed home. The roads were empty, the desert dark on either side, and I replayed the whole night in my head even though I knew I shouldn't.
Monday morning I got to the rink at 4:47.
I sat in my truck with the engine running and the heat blowing, watching the entrance. The parking lot was empty except for the overnight guy's pickup.
At 5:15 I gave up and went inside.
The ice was fresh from the Zamboni, gleaming under the overhead lights. The rink had that hollow early-morning quiet where every sound came back at you twice. No black-clad figure skating patterns across the surface. No camera on a tripod. No music.
I skated anyway until my hip went hot and tight, crossovers until my lungs burned and the only thing left was the next stride, the next turn, the scrape of my blades against ice that should have had someone else on it. By seven my legs were shaking and the door hadn't opened once.
I showered. Drove home. Made Dad's breakfast and counted out his pills and sat with him while he watched a game show, and when he asked me twice in ten minutes if Derek was coming over, I answered both times like it was the first.
Tuesday I got there at 4:52.
The parking lot was the same. The ice was the same. I skated harder this time, pushing until sweat soaked through my shirt and froze against my skin when I stopped. The cold settled into my bones and stayed there.
