“My face doesn’t want to hear them.”
“Your face looks like it lost a fight with a bad decision.”
I grabbed my jacket from the back of a chair and shoved one arm into it, then the other, catching the lining wrong because of course I did. The sleeve twisted. I got annoyed, yanked harder, nearly punched myself in the ribs, and Roman sighed like I was a community service project.
“Sit down for five seconds,” he said.
“I’m leaving.”
“I gathered that from the part where you’re trying to strangle yourself with outerwear.”
“Roman.”
He stood, slower than I wanted, blocking enough of the room that I had to focus on him instead of everything else. His expression wasn’t joking anymore.
“You okay?”
The question hit the exact place I didn’t have armor.
Not are you drunk. Not what did you do. Not who were you with.
You okay.
I nodded too fast. “Yeah.”
He didn’t buy it.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I forced my hands to stop fighting the jacket. “I’m going back to the hotel. I’m tired.”
“Tired.”
“Yes.”
“You won a game, drank two beers too fast, got mauled by a stranger at the bar, disappeared outside after Coach, and now you’re tired.”
My stomach dropped.
There was no accusation in his voice. That made it worse. Roman didn’t throw guesses around for sport. He saved them until he was sure enough to hate knowing.
I looked past him toward the hallway to the bathrooms, then back. “I didn’t get mauled.”
“That’s the detail you want to argue?”
“I’m fine.”
His mouth flattened. For a second I thought he might press. Roman had been my friend long enough to know when I was lying and my goalie long enough to know when a puck was about to get through.
Instead he said, “Text me when you’re in your room.”
My throat tightened. “Yeah.”
“Jace.”
“What?”
His eyes stayed on mine. “Don’t make me stupid.”
