“I hate you.”
“You love me. And you're deflecting, which means I'm right.” He switched topics before I could argue. “So my roommate is convinced the people upstairs are running a fight club. Like, actual fight club. There's just thumping at all hours.”
I latched onto the subject change gratefully. “Maybe they're just having really aggressive sex.”
“For six hours straight? I don't think anyone has that kind of stamina.”
“Maybe they're training for a marathon.”
“At two in the morning?”
We spent the next half hour like that—trading increasingly ridiculous theories about Owen's neighbors, dissecting his latest dating disaster with a bartender who turned out to be married, complaining about the price of rent in Toronto. It felt good. Better than good.
Owen had this gift for making everything lighter, for reminding me that the world kept spinning even when I was drowning. We'd been friends since we were fifteen, and he was one of the few people who'd seen me at my worst and hadn't treated me differently after.
When he finally left to head to his shift at the bar, he clapped me on the shoulder. “Text me if the coach thing gets weird.”
“It's not a thing.”
“Sure it's not. Love you, man.”
“Love you too, asshole.”
I sat alone for a few more minutes, finishing my coffee and actually looking at the book I'd grabbed. Urban farming. Growing food in small spaces. Not exactly riveting, but there was something weirdly calming about reading words that had nothing to do with me or my performance or what I was supposed to be.
I bought it on my way out. Probably wouldn't read it, but buying it felt necessary.
The air outside was cold and I pulled my hood up against it. The street was busy, people moving in and out of shops, living their lives without cameras or commentary or the weight of twenty thousand expectations sitting on their shoulders.
I started walking toward where I'd parked, hands shoved in my pockets, and that's when I nearly collided with someone coming out of the Thai restaurant next door.
I stepped back and looked up.
It was Coach, two bags of takeout in his hands, wearing jeans and a dark jacket with no Northgate branding, no coach persona. Just a guy picking up dinner. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd been running his hand through it, and there was something softer about him outside the rink. Less contained. More human.
“Hartley,” he said, and there was surprise in his voice. Not displeasure. Just surprise.
“Coach.” I pulled off my sunglasses because wearing them at dusk was objectively ridiculous. “Didn't expect to see you here.”
“Apparently.” His mouth curved, dry and unhurried. “You might want to start watching where you're going. This is the second time you've nearly taken me out. At some point that stops being an accident.”
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. “The hallway was a blind corner.”
“And this?”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“Urban farming,” I said, and held up the book.
He looked at it. Looked at me. Something flickered behind his eyes that I was almost certain was amusement. “Right.” He shifted the bags. “I live two blocks over. Thai food is a weakness.”
“Same.” The word came out before I could stop it. “The green curry here is insane.”
“You in disguise?” he asked, nodding at my beanie and hoodie setup.
“Trying to be. Didn't work.”
