I try again. Type: “I need to see you.”
My finger hovers over “Send.”
I close my eyes. I can hear my father’s voice—“The plays that look impossible? Those are the ones that win championships.” I hear my mom, too, whispering “Be brave, baby,” like she’s still sitting next to me on the bed, holding my wrist.
I open my eyes. Outside, the rain is coming down harder now, the parking lot a blur of gray and red taillights.
The couple by the arrivals gate is gone, replaced by a woman in a tracksuit who looks exactly like the gym teacher from middle school.
I delete the message.
I tuck the phone away.
I shoulder my bag and walk to the exit, feet heavy but moving, the air outside shockingly cold even through my jacket.
I don’t know what happens next.
But I know I have to find out.
TRAPPED
Capitol Hill at seven p.m. is a microdose of hell, all neon and wind and bodies pressed so close they could suffocate you before you even make it to the entrance.
Vincent is already waiting at the host stand, running his finger along the seam of a black Moleskine, eyes laser-focused on the maitre d’ like he’s negotiating a hostage release.
The place is called “Murmur”, lowercase, no sign, just a street number stenciled on a frosted window but the inside is louder than a playoff crowd and twice as desperate.
He sees me and waves, one of those low-key, palm-down gestures that doesn’t draw a crowd but does make you feel instantly like a delivery guy with the wrong address.
I nod, push through the glass, and immediately regret every part of this plan.
Vincent stands, smooths his shirt, then leans in for a cheek kiss. It’s not European, not friendly, just a brush of skin to say I’m in his world now and it’s best if I play along.
He smells like cedar and black pepper and some chemical top note that could strip paint. The hug is nothing, just two slabs of meat pressed together and then pulled apart.
The host walks us to a two-top against the back wall, right under a pipe leaking condensation onto the cement.
Vincent takes the inside seat, back to the wall, the better to watch everything. He’s in a suit jacket, no tie, dress shirt open just enough to show collarbone.
I’m in a hoodie and jeans, because that’s all I own that doesn’t smell like sweat or defeat.
Menus arrive, and so does water, and within twenty seconds Vincent is talking about the wine list, about how the owner used to be a sommelier at some place in Madrid, and how “these are the only deviled eggs I’ve ever respected.”
He orders for both of us, which should piss me off, but honestly, it’s a relief not to have to perform interest in anything.
I zone out for the first few minutes, focusing on the way the table wobbles if you rest your arms a certain way, or how the candle in the cheap glass holder is just about to burn out but no one’s noticed.
Vincent’s voice slides up and down, soft, unctuous, then biting when he’s making a point.
He leans in, eyes on mine. “So,” he says, “tell me how a guy goes from sub to first star overnight.”
I choke on the water, cough, wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “Luck? Mostly I just show up.”
He laughs, real and loud, and people actually turn. “Bullshit,” he says, and for a second, I almost like him. “Nobody just shows up. There’s always a reason.”
I could tell him the truth, that the reason is trauma, that the reason is watching four guys die on the ice and stepping over your captain's body to survive, that the reason is sometimes just inertia, but that sounds like an after-school special. So I shrug.
He doesn’t let it go. “Was it always hockey?” he says. “Were you one of those kids who slept with a stick in your bed?”
