I don't say that out loud.
Instead, I tilt my head slightly. “Your jaw is going to bruise.”
He huffs a laugh. “You sound like my trainer.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
There is noise around us. Teammates moving past. Laughter. Equipment staff wheeling bags down the corridor. Families greeting players as they come out of the locker room.
And yet it feels like the hallway has narrowed.
Like it's just us.
“You coming home?” he asks.
“Yes, soon,” I say. “I told Jenna I’d relieve her after I checked in with you.”
That word lands.
Home.
He nods slowly.
“Drive safe,” he says.
“You too.”
He takes one step back. Then another.
But his eyes don’t leave mine.
Not until a teammate slaps him on the shoulder and pulls him toward the locker room.
I stand there a moment longer than necessary.
I’ve been to hundreds of games.
I’ve watched Mason bleed and get back up.
I’ve watched Gabriel take hits and shake them off.
But tonight, when he went down, my heart went with him.
I didn't think about the plan.
I didn't think about optics.
I thought about losing something I have barely begun to understand.
The arena empties slowly behind me.
I walk toward the exit, the echo of skates still ringing in my ears.
He looked for me first.
Not because he had to.
