The warmth of his pride and the shape of my grief lived in the same place now. I didn’t know how to separate them anymore.
“Thank you,” I said.
He clapped my shoulder and left to handle post-game logistics.
I packed up.
Through the press-level glass, I watched the building staff clearing the arena.
I found Tolrek.
He’d showered and changed into a suit and stood in the bench area, talking to Brashe. He looked up, directly at the press level. Directly at me.
He held my gaze before he returned to whatever Brashe was saying.
I left the press area and headed for the lot where the bus would be waiting.
The ride back to the hotel was quieter than the morning trip. Post-game exhaustion had set in after adrenaline wore off and bodies remembered they’d been hit for over an hour.
I took the same seat and opened my laptop to work through the preliminary breakdown I’d send to the coaching staff tonight. Brashe settled in the seat across from me again while Tolrek dropped into the seat behind me.
The warmth returned, holding me like an embrace.
Not long after, the bus pulled into the hotel lot, a mid-tier place teams stayed in when the budget didn’t cover luxury but couldn’t justify cheap. When I’d dropped off my bag earlier, I’d found it clean and functional. Forgettable in the way most road hotels were.
We stepped inside, and I slung my bag over my shoulder, heading for the elevators. The doors were closing when I reached them.
A hand appeared in the gap.
Large. Green-skinned.
The doors reversed.
Tolrek stood inside, his bag at his feet. He didn’t say anything as I stepped inside.
The doors closed, and it was just us, alone for the first time since last evening. Our kisses hung between us. We hadn’t spoken about them, but I felt them as if his mouth was on mine this very second.
The elevator was standard hotel size, maybe four feet by six and designed for four people who weren’t orc hockey players.
He took up a lot of it.
The mirrored panels on the wall reflected us both, making our size difference stark. My head came to just above his chest. If I turned, I’d be looking at the center of his sternum.
The elevator climbed. Third floor. Fourth.
Neither of us spoke, though it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was the other kind, the one that felt full instead of empty.
My bag slipped off my shoulder.
He caught it before I had to adjust. He took the strap and held it toward me, his fingers wrapping around the canvas, making the bag look tiny in comparison.
The elevator pinged. Fifth floor.
My floor.
The doors opened, and webothstepped out.
Of course.
