No double dose. No guessing.
I set a reminder to ask my doctor about one of those weekly pill cases old people used, then remembered I had bought one two months ago. It was probably in a drawer. Or my car. Or the bag I took on the last road trip.
Normal. Be normal.
I showered, got dressed, put the wrong shirt on inside out, fixed it, then spent five full minutes searching for my phone while holding it.
That was when I almost texted him.
My thumb opened the thread on muscle memory.
Last message from last night.
Me: Home. Don’t answer. Just wanted you to know I made it.
Declan: Thank you.
That was it. Two words. Responsible. Careful.
I stared until the screen dimmed.
No texting.
I locked the phone, shoved it in my pocket, grabbed my keys, forgot my coffee on the counter, went back for it, then left without my wallet. I only realized when I got to the elevator and had to jam my hand between the closing doors like an idiot.
By the time I made it to the rink, I was eight minutes early and felt like I’d been late for years.
The parking lot was half full. Gray morning, salt crusted along the edges of the pavement, players moving from cars to staffentrance with their heads down against the cold. Everything looked normal. That pissed me off for no reason I could explain.
How did the world just continue?
How were guys carrying sticks and coffees while Olivia Reid had slept in a guest room, maybe, and Declan had sat alone with that giant dog and the ruined duck, maybe, and I had woken up wanting to climb out of my own skin?
I parked crooked, noticed, swore, backed out, fixed it badly, then decided that was between me and God.
Inside, the building smelled like coffee, rubber flooring, cold air, and gear. Familiar enough that my body tried to settle before my head would allow it. I nodded at security. Said hey to one of the equipment guys. Managed not to check my phone for the full walk to the locker room, which deserved a parade no one offered.
Roman was already there.
Of course he was. Roman had the energy of a divorced vampire who existed entirely on black coffee and judgment. He sat in his stall, half dressed, taping a stick with slow precision. He didn’t look up when I came in.
“You parked like you were fleeing a bank robbery,” he said.
“Good morning to you too.”
“You hit two lines.”
“I was making sure other cars respected my personal space.”
“Your personal space extends into Benny’s spot.”
“Benny doesn’t respect anything.”
Roman tore the tape with his teeth and finally looked at me.
That was the problem with Roman. Most guys looked and saw whatever I handed them. A joke. A shrug. Some bright, stupid distraction. Roman looked like he was checking the structural integrity of a bridge after an earthquake.
I dropped my bag too loudly and started pulling out gear.
