No message from Declan.
Good. Correct. Annoying.
We’d agreed. No unnecessary contact before the meeting. No impulse texts. No one-liners that looked innocent until a lawyer with a highlighter found them. I understood the reasoning. I supported the reasoning. I wanted to throw the reasoning into traffic.
I opened my notes app instead.
One page. Tessa’s rule.
I had written it the night before after staring at the cursor for twenty minutes and then reorganizing my sock drawer because apparently emotional avoidance loved cotton blends. The statement was short. Too short. Then too long. Then short again after I cut three paragraphs of explaining, defending, and accidentally sounding like I was applying for a grant.
I read it for the thirty-seventh time.
I am here to disclose a consensual relationship with Declan Reid. We understand the professional conflict created by his role as head coach and my role as a player. We are disclosing voluntarily before external discovery because the organization deserves transparency and an opportunity to address the conflict. I understand this may create consequences for both of us. I will cooperate with the review process and any reasonable measures required to protect the team and the integrity of hockey decisions.
I hated every word because every word was true.
A knock hit my passenger window.
I flinched so hard my keys flew out of my hand and hit the floor mat.
Roman stood outside with two coffees and the expression of a man who had seen me do dumber things and was saving them for later.
I unlocked the door.
He opened it, looked at my bag, then at me. “You living in here now?”
“Thinking about it. Rent’s lower. View’s terrible.”
He handed me a coffee and leaned against the open door. “You’re early.”
“I’m redefining my brand.”
“You look like you fought a dryer and lost.”
“I slept.”
“No, you lay down and practiced anxiety horizontally.”
That was annoyingly accurate, so I took a drink of coffee instead of answering.
Roman watched me over the rim of his cup. He wasn’t dressed for practice yet. Hoodie, ball cap, sweatpants, no goalie weirdness in sight. He looked tired too. Not my kind of tired. Divorced veteran goalie tired. The kind that lived in the shoulders and judged younger men before breakfast.
“You want to sit in here pretending you’re fine,” he said, “or are we walking?”
I looked at the building. “Walking where?”
“Around the lot. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where if I put you in a hallway, you’ll ricochet off six walls and apologize to a vending machine.”
“I apologized to a cabinet yesterday.”
“I believe that completely.”
I got out.
