Chapter nine
Pratt
The knock came at twelve-eleven. It was one knock, not two.
Two meant the lock. One meant something else, and I lay in the dark for three seconds, deciding. I got up, pulled on sweats and an Ironhawks t-shirt, and opened the door.
Sully stood there in a wrinkled shirt and jeans, with no shoes and hands loose at his sides. "I don't have a reason," he said. "Just so you know. I'm not locked out."
"I know. It was one knock, but at the door, not on the wall."
"Okay." He held still for a moment. "I was lying there and then I wasn't."
I stepped back from the door. He came inside.
The condo was dark except for the lamp in the corner.
"I won't stay long," he said.
"You don't have to rush."
Sully turned to face me. Then he put one hand against the side of my jaw and kissed me. I kissed back, parting my lips. His other hand held onto the front of my shirt. I put my hands on his waist, steadying him. His body was warm through the fabric.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
He smiled.
"Bad news, though. Road trip starting tomorrow," I said.
"Yeah, I know. I track the schedule. I wasn't—" He stopped and started again. "I just wanted to."
He let go of my shirt.
"Four games."
"Ten days." He took a half-step back. "I know the schedule, Pratt."
He exhaled. "When you get back," he said.
"Yes."
Sully nodded once. He pushed his hands into his jeans pockets and looked at the lamp one more time.
"Good luck," he said. "Not that you need it."
"I'll take it."
He crossed to the door and let himself out. I turned off the lamp and went to bed.
***
The media focused on Cross.
They had both his goals in their production queue. I'd seen it on a laptop near the equipment bay. Cross stood at the center of a five-reporter circle, answering each question in few words without decoration.
I moved past the edge of the cluster. No one turned or lifted a recorder toward me.
