I read her message twice. Because—yeah. That’s the part I don’t say out loud. Not to Weston, not to Asher, and definitely not to Kai, who would immediately turn it into a risk assessment. She’s the only place I don’t feel like I have to beon.
I stare at my phone, then type what I can admit.
NumberEleven: same.
Her dots appear again, slower this time, like she’s thinking.
LittleTooMuch: Okay. Here’s a thought.
NumberEleven: i’m listening.
LittleTooMuch: What if we keep it like this? No names, no faces, no weird expectations.
I exhale through my nose.
Thank fuck.
Because I’m not ready for names and faces either, but I’m not about to admit that. Not when pride is basically stitched into my jersey.
NumberEleven: sounds good to me.
LittleTooMuch: But eventually…
My stomach does a weird flip.
NumberEleven: eventually?
LittleTooMuch: Eventually I might want to know who you are.
There it is. The inevitable.
I stare at the message like it’s going to rewrite itself into something less terrifying. I can picture it too easily: a face, a name, a real person. Someone I could accidentally disappoint. Someone who might look at me and see the last name first. Or worse—someone whose life is already tangled with mine in a way I can’t afford.
I type the only answer I can live with right now.
NumberEleven: we’ll see.
A pause.
LittleTooMuch: That’s fair.
I hate how relieved I feel. So I make a joke, because jokes are safer than confessions.
NumberEleven: for the record, your profiling skills are terrible.
LittleTooMuch: Excuse you. I nailed the “polite” thing.
NumberEleven: debatable.
LittleTooMuch: You said you wouldn’t steal the last muffin. That’s basically a marriage proposal.
I laugh—quiet, real—and shake my head like she can see me.
We go back and forth for a while longer, and then I shower. I watch film. I try to focus on our first few games and pretend my life is just hockey and class and the familiar grind. It works for about ten minutes.
Then my phone lights up again.
NumberEleven: go to sleep, little detective.
