Not the furious kind — nobody has the energy for fury. Just deflated. Guys pulling off gear with sighs.
Coach comes in and delivers his post-game with controlled disappointment, which I don’t give two fucks about. He talks about execution. About transition defense. About finishing chances. He doesn't mention Cody again.
I sit at my stall, listening and feeling each point land exactly where it should.
When he leaves, the room empties gradually. I don't rush. I sit with my helmet in my hands and look at nothing and let the noise drain out until it's just me and Beckett and the low hum of the ventilation system.
Silas pauses in the doorway on his way out. Looks between us. Leaves without a word.
The door swings shut.
Beckett peels the tape from his wrists slowly. He doesn't look at me. "You want to tell me where you were tonight?"
"I was on the ice."
He points to his head, then to his heart.
I glare at him and his pathetic gestures.
He finishes with the tape and drops it, finally looking at me. "Enjoy the game dedication?"
That earns a grin.
He shakes his head. “Don’t be obvious about it, man. Nothing you can do at this point.”
I don’t say anything. We sit with that for a moment. The specific weight of it. Cody Ravenshaw alive and well and recovering and the entire structure we built on top of his silence suddenly without its foundation.
"He's going to move," I say. "He's going to have time to think, and now he has his health back, and he's going to move."
"I know."
"Which means we need to be ahead of it."
Beckett looks at me steadily. "Yeah."
"Together." The word comes out simply. "Whatever I've made complicated between us — I need it uncomplicated. Right now. He is the problem. Always was. Not you."
Something releases in Beckett's expression –– a tension he's been carrying for a long time without putting it down.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay," I say back.
The silence fills between us, but I can practically hear him thinking.
Then Beckett says, carefully, "Have you heard from her?"
I look at the floor. "What makes you say that?" I ask. The words cost more than they should. I hear it in my own voice, and I don't like what it sounds like.
Beckett is quiet. "She hasn't responded to me."
I nod once and say nothing.
"I could call her," Beckett says. Even. Neutral. A practical solution to a logistical problem.
I look at him.
He looks back with those steady eyes, and I understand immediately what he's doing. Not offering to help. Testing. Watching to see what my face does with it. Watching to see if I'llreach for it — if I'll hand him the task because I want to know and can't afford to be seen wanting to know.
