“In for four,” I said.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Not yet. Wait.”
His body locked down.
I counted with two fingers against my thigh. “Now.”
He inhaled.
“Hold.”
His fingers pressed into his thighs.
“Out.”
The exhale left him unevenly. The second was better. By the fourth round, his shoulders had lowered a fraction, and the frantic tapping in his foot had stopped. Nothing in the room was safe exactly. There was too much between us for that. But some of the static around him eased.
“Did you eat?” I asked.
“Protein bar in the car.”
“That isn’t breakfast.”
“It had twenty grams of protein and tasted like drywall. That feels spiritually significant.”
“After this, cafeteria. Eggs. Something with actual food in it.”
His mouth twitched. “Yes, Coach.”
The title had weight now.
He heard it. I heard it. It moved through the room and found every place it should not have been allowed to touch.
I turned toward my desk, needing the practical shape of papers and schedules. “Tonight you’re attending the children’s hockey fundraiser at the Weston.”
His head came up. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not on that appearance list. Milo and Brooks are doing it with Roman.”
“You were added.”
“By who?”
“Me.”
He stared. “Why?”
Because leaving him alone tonight would be a mistake. Because I would wonder if he’d eaten, if he’d slept, if he’d gotten caught in his own head and driven around Denver until midnight with music too loud and nowhere to go. Because I wanted him somewhere I could see him, and that was the kind of reason I had no business letting into the room.
“Because you’re the face of this team,” I said. “Because the youth program asked for you. Because you missed the last sponsor appearance.”
“I had a migraine.”
“You forgot. Tessa found you online three hours into a video game stream.”
