He strode past me, continuing toward the stairwell without looking back.
I entered my office and closed the door, leaning against it until my heart rate returned to something approaching normal.
I stood there longer than I needed to.
The corridor had been empty. But I hadn’t crossed it and neither had he, and that restraint was costing both of us something I didn’t have a tag for.
Sitting at my desk, I turned on my computer. I pulled up the full-team overview, and I made myself work until the evening’s game, when I left to take my place inside the same press box.
Tolrek played like an orc who’d found something he’d been missing. His reads were sharp, his positioning perfect, and his on-ice communication was the kind that made the whole defensive structure stronger.
I did my job, trying not to feel like twenty thousand people were watching something that belonged only to me.
We won by three goals, and I was sure the press would call it a dominant performance, the kind that would fuel my father's team meetings for days.
After the game, I stayed in the press box, compiling my breakdown and avoiding the moment when I’d have to walk past the locker room area where Tolrek would be celebrating with the team.
When I finally packed up and headed out, the corridors were empty.
I found Tolrek standing near the exit, talking to Crim and Brashe. He looked amazing in a suit he’d donned for the post-game media wrap-up, and relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen before.
I continued toward the parking lot where my car waited.
Behind me, Crim said something that made Brashe laugh. Tolrek responded, though I couldn’t make out the words.
My father joined them, his voice boisterous as he praised their performance.
I kept walking until I reached my car, where I got inside and sat in the dark before I could make myself start the engine.
Midnight found me stress baking in my kitchen, elbow-deep in flour and butter.
My mother’s recipe cards sat on the counter, splattered with ingredients. I was making chocolate chip cookies, the same ones I’d made at least once a week since I was twelve.
I was making them because I couldn’t sleep and needed my hands to do something other than reach for my phone.
I measured vanilla extract, adding extra the way my mom used to. If I was lucky, the gut punch I got whenever I used her recipes would never go away.
A sweet smell filled my small kitchen.
The first batch went into the oven. I set the timer and spooned more onto a second sheet pan.
My phone sat on the counter, face up. It had remained silent all night.
I could text Tolrek something simple. A few words that wouldn’t mean anything if anyone else saw it.How’s Beau?Or,Great game!No one would question anything like that.
The timer went off, and I pulled the first batch out and set them on the cooling rack. Golden brown, slightly crispy at the edges, and soft in the middle. Perfect.
I slid the second pan into the oven and scooped the first pan’s cookies onto the rack. Then spooned up more batter on the first pan.
By one in the morning, I had made four dozen cookies. Enough for my neighbors and the kid who liked them. My father could take some to the coaches’ office tomorrow.
I could give some to Tolrek.
The thought arrived fully formed, which was how I knew it was a bad one. It was a neighborly gesture, something nice because we lived across the street from each other and that’s what neighbors did, right?
It was cookies, nothing that required explanation.
I packed a container with the best ones.
