We didn't spring apart. We separated at a normal speed, the unhurried pace of two men who had decided that hiding was over.
Luca stood in the doorway. Behind him, the locker room noise filtered through. Luca looked at us. His expression was the captain's expression, the one that absorbed everything and judged nothing.
"Team meeting," he said. "Both of you."
The locker room went quiet when we walked in together. Kieran's hand was wrapped in gauze. My ice pack was visibleunder my jersey. We sat in Kieran's stall, side by side, the proximity deliberate and undisguised.
Bishop stood up. He didn't ask for the room's attention; he simply stood, and his physical presence commanded it the way gravity commanded orbit.
"Something's been bothering me," he said. His voice carried to every corner. "For weeks, Jerry Brue's been writing articles with information that could only come from inside this room. Details about training, about personal arrangements, about things that are none of the public's goddamn business."
The silence was absolute. Twenty-two men holding their breath.
"I want to know who's been talking to him."
No one moved. No one spoke. The room was quiet.
Morrison sat in his stall, three spots from the door. His head was down. His hands were busy with his skate laces, untying, retying, a fidgeting loop that accomplished nothing. He didn't look up.
I watched him. I'd been watching him for weeks, the phone always in his hand, the easy relationship with the media, the way he was present during every crisis without ever being central to one.
I didn't have proof. I had a pattern. And patterns weren't enough to destroy a man's reputation. I knew that better than anyone.
So I said nothing. I filed it away and let Bishop's question hang.
Kieran stood up. The room's attention shifted to him, the goalie who'd just fought an enforcer, the man whose bloody knuckles were still wrapped in gauze.
"While we're clearing the air," Kieran started. His voice was steady. The goalie's voice, calm under pressure, because calm was contagious. "Nico and I are together. We have been for awhile. It didn't compromise my play, it didn't compromise the team, and it's not going to. If anyone has a problem with that, say it now."
Silence.
Then Theo stood up, walked across the room, and wrapped me in a hug so tight my bruised ribs protested. "Finally," he said into my shoulder.
Volkov was next, crossing himself in the Russian Orthodox fashion and then kissing both my cheeks with a formality that somehow felt more meaningful than any handshake. "In Russia," he said, "we don't talk about such things. But I am not in Russia. Congratulations."
Hayes extended his hand to Kieran. "Should've seen this coming when you fought a guy twice your weight."
"Thompson's not twice my weight."
"He's twice your fight experience. Close enough."
One by one, the room responded. Not every reaction was enthusiastic. Garrett's nod was stiff, Morrison's murmured congratulations were hollow, a couple of the younger guys exchanged glances that suggested they'd need time. But the overall current was clear.
Bishop was last. He hadn't moved from his standing position. He looked at Kieran, then at me, his expression unreadable.
"If either of you lets this distract from playoff hockey," he said, "I will personally end you both."
Then he sat down, and the room erupted. The music came back on, and twenty-two men returned to the business of celebrating.
21
KIERAN
Sarah called on a Wednesday morning, two days after we clinched.
I was in the kitchen making tea. Nico was in the shower. The water ran in the shower, the faint sound of him humming. He hummed in the shower now.
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen expecting Luca or Park or even Brue, who'd been leaving messages I hadn't returned.
