“Still delete it,” I say.
He does, muttering under his breath about creative oppression.
The moment breaks enough for everyone to breathe, and I let it, because that’s what my team does. They take something heavy and put their shoulders under it without making a show. They chirp because if they don’t, the weight wins.
I get that now more than I ever have.
Ryan waits until Briggs and Rider start arguing about whether a group chat logo counts as evidence of premeditation before he nods toward the hallway. “Walk.”
I follow him out.
The hall outside the locker room is quiet, fluorescent lights humming overhead, concrete still damp near the rink entrance from skates and snow spray. Ryan stops by the vending machine and leans back against the wall.
For a minute, neither of us says anything.
Then he asks, “How bad?”
I stare at the closed locker room door.
“Bad.”
His jaw shifts.
“I can’t tell you,” I say.
“I didn’t ask for details.”
“I know.”
He studies me. “You’re close to the edge.”
A laugh almost comes out, but there isn’t any humor in it. “I’m past it.”
“No. Past it means you’re gone already. You’re standing here asking for help, so you’re not past it.”
That is the thing about Decker. He says shit like that and makes it impossible to argue without proving his point.
I drag a hand over my jaw. “I need you to keep me in check.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
Ryan nods once like I just confirmed something he already knew. “Am I stopping you or helping hide the body?”
“Depends how the day goes.”
“Then I’ll start with stopping you.”
I look at him and he doesn’t blink.
“You don’t want to be the reason this gets harder for her,” he says. “That’s the line. Not legal. Not moral. Her. Anything you do either protects Bliss or makes her carry more. That’s how you decide.”
The words hit exactly where they need to.
I hate that.
But I need it.
