“You’re not Uber-ing to the airport after this.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Kilovac replies evenly.
Lenzin nods once. “We’ll get you there.”
Reznik hesitates.
Anna lifts her chin slightly. “He’s not wrong.”
He studies her, and she holds his gaze.
“We’ll be here all night if you think you’ll win a staring contest with her,” I state. “Let’s go.”
He nods once.
“Fine.”
Lenzin has not stopped looking at me since we left the hospital. Every time I look away and glance back, he’s still staring intensely.
Deacon pulls up to the departures curb at JFK and doesn’t cut the engine. I open the door to let him out, and cold air rushes in, and I slide out to embrace it.
Outside, a small cluster of Phoenix’s players waits near the concrete barrier.
Three of them with duffle bags at their feet, hoodies up. When they see Reznik, they straighten.
One of them takes in the stitches on Anna’s temple and swears quietly under his breath.
Reznik doesn’t greet them first; he turns back toward us, toward Kilovac, toward Faulker. The men who play on the other side of him. The men whose friend was injured by residual anger stemming from the game.
He studies them for a second, then nods once. “Picture.”
Faulker exhales through his nose. “You’re kidding.”
“Get over here.”
Kilovac steps up first, no hesitation.
“Means you too, Deacon,” Lenzin says as Faulker joins him.
Deacon slides in at the edge, and Reznik moves among them all, phone up, snaps a picture, and taps the screen.
The Fight Stays On The Ice.No hashtags. No emojis.
One of his teammates steps closer. “You good?”
Reznik nods once. “She’s okay, so yes.”
The teammate’s eyes flick to Anna.
He gives her a short nod. It’s respectful enough I suppose. No apology from them, and they didn’t do this, but they understand what happened.
Reznik slings his bag higher on his shoulder.
He steps closer to the vehicle. “You need anything, DM me.”
She rolls her eyes, but I swear I see heat flare just a touch in her face.
