My phone buzzed. Vanessa.
Dinner still good? I made a reservation at Marlow.
I stood, because now I had a reason to move and if I didn’t take it, I didn’t know what that made me.
“Dinner?” Coach asked.
“Vanessa.”
Just her name. Normal answer.
His expression didn’t change, but the air did. Or maybe I changed and blamed the air.
“Don’t be late,” he said.
I snorted. “For my girlfriend?”
“For anything.”
There it was. Short. Direct. A line.
My mouth opened around three possible jokes, one explanation about traffic, and one stupid urge to ask if he cared.
He cut across all of it.
“Holloway.”
I stopped.
Not dramatically. Not like yesterday. But the response was immediate enough that I felt it. He felt it too. I could tell because his face went careful in a way that made my skin prickle.
“Leave now,” he said.
No anger. No audience. No hockey reason, really.
My phone was still in my hand. Tiny leaned against my leg. Coach stood two feet away, leash looped in his fist, and neither of us said anything for one beat too long.
“Yeah,” I said finally. My voice came out lower than I meant. “Okay.”
I left.
Dinner with Vanessa was nice.
That was the worst part.
She looked beautiful, hair smooth over one shoulder, gold earrings catching candlelight. She told me about a brand trip she might take to Scottsdale, about a creator she liked who had copied a campaign concept, about how her agent thought she should pivot into more wellness content because engagement was trending that way.
I listened.
I really did.
I asked questions in the right places. I remembered not to check my phone every time it lit up. I told her about practice withoutmentioning the parts that mattered. She laughed when I told her Milo wanted to survive in the wilderness.
Her hand rested near mine on the table.
Nothing was wrong.
That made the guilt sharper.
