I nod.
Vesper raises her hand weakly.“Go.Before I start charging you rent for emotional damage.”
Cally smiles, softer than his usual grin.“Put it on my tab.”
I pause at the door.One more look.
She has her eyes closed.It makes me want to go back and hold her the way we did last night until she fell asleep, but I don’t.
We step into the hallway.The elevator ride down is silent.Not because there’s nothing to say.Because anything we say will turn into a fight or a confession, and we don’t have time for either.
ChapterNineteen
Alberto
Outside, Portland hits me with damp air and a low gray sky that hangs like it’s listening.Tires hiss over wet pavement.The city smells clean—pine and rain and money—and it feels like a lie I don’t have the energy to unpack.
A team SUV waits at the curb, which seems normal.But, there’s a second vehicle across the street—dark, idling, window down just enough for someone to watch without being obvious about it.It seems out of place.
We didn’t even make it to the sidewalk before the first camera appears.Then another.Then three more, as if they were camping and hoping to see us.
Someone calls my name.
Someone calls Cally’s.
A reporter lunges forward, phone up, voice bright with hunger.“Montoya!Winthrop!How does it feel to be traded to Portland?Are you excited to finally be on the same side?”
“How the fuck did they know where to find us?”I mutter, low enough that only Cally catches it.
Cally’s smile snaps into place like he flips a switch.Charming, all warm and even happy to be here.It’s the face he sells when he needs the world to like him.“We’re thrilled.”
I don’t look at him.I keep moving, because stopping is what gets you surrounded.
Another voice, louder.“Is the rivalry over?Or are we going to see fireworks in the locker room?”
A third voice cuts in, sharper with gossip.“Any truth to the rumors that you two don’t get along?Did the Orcas trade for talent—or drama?”
Cally’s jaw ticks once, still smiling.“We’re professionals.”
I stop at the SUV door and turn just enough to give them my face.
My public face.
“The only thing I care about,” I say, voice flat, “is stopping pucks and winning games.”
Someone laughs.Someone mutters, “Classic Montoya,” like they’ve already decided who I am.
Cally leans closer, like we’re sharing a private joke.Like we’re friends.Like we’re not two men trying to stand in the same space without ripping open old wounds and making Vesper pay for it.
Under his breath, so only I can hear: “Smile, big guy.They’ll eat you alive if you don’t.”
I look at him then.
Really look.
And there’s something in his eyes that isn’t part of his performance.
It’s fear.
