But I was going to try anyway.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TOLREK
Iarrived in the lobby early and positioned myself near a column that gave me a clear view of the elevator bank without looking like I was watching it.
The team gradually arrived, Mikael loud even at this hour. Two of the younger forwards were half asleep and barely moving. The assistant coaches lingered at the front desk, making sure the bill was settled.
The elevator pinged.
Haley stepped out with her laptop case slung over one shoulder, her overnight bag in the other hand. She didn’t look any different than last night, but this was what the situation required. We couldn’t do anything with what happened, not in front of the world.
My sternum pulled tight, the way it did at the start of a tough game.
Our eyes met across the lobby.
She looked away first, her attention shifting to the gear pile as she crossed the floor. I walked toward the collected baggage as if I’d been heading there the entire time.
I took her personal bag and added it to the stack.
“Thank you,” she said. “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
She turned toward the clustered lounge chairs, and I returned to my post.
Players continued to join us, the lobby filling with bodies and noise.
The equipment managers loaded everything on the bus while we climbed inside.
Brashe took the aisle seat directly across from mine, settling into it with a long sigh. He swiped into his phone and scowled at a picture of a woman. One of the staff? I couldn’t tell at this angle.
Haley sat one row ahead of us, in the window seat, and pulled out her laptop.
Once everything and everyone was settled, the bus pulled out of the lot. City traffic gave way to a long stretch of highway. The miles started stacking up.
If I turned my head just right, I could see the glow of her laptop screen, her fingers moving across the keyboard.
Eventually, she closed her laptop and rose, making her way down the aisle to drop her coffee cup in the trash. She returned, only briefly meeting my eyes, and sat in the window seat again, tipping her head against the glass pane.
I pulled my practice notes up on my phone and reviewed positioning sequences from yesterday’s game. The notes required more concentration than I liked, because it made it harder to watch Haley.
Four hours into the drive, we pulled into a rest stop.
“Forty minutes, guys,” one of the assistant coaches called out. He stepped off the bus as we rose.
I got off the bus and stood in the parking lot. The day had warmed up nicely. I tilted my head back and let the sun hit my face.
Haley exited the bus and passed by me on the way to the building. She didn’t stop, and I did my best to pretend I hadn't expected her to stop.
I followed her to the rest area building and stood outside, watching a family climb into their vehicle. The mother was organizing the children. The father was checking something on his phone. The kids were fighting with each other in the back seat.
Renkar would’ve made this into something. He had a gift for that, finding the joke in ordinary situations, the release valve in moments that felt tight. If he were standing here in this parking lot, he would’ve made the whole situation both worse and better, and I would’ve been annoyed at him for being right.
He’d been dead for three years, and I still turned to tell him things.
Haley came back out with a sandwich and a bottle of water and paused beside me.
