“Also maybe.”
“You see how helpful this is.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “I don’t have an answer.”
He let out a breath. “Okay. When you do, don’t wait until it’s on fire.”
“Very motivational.”
“I’m a leader of men.”
“You yell at people for getting too close to your crease.”
“That is leadership.”
After we hung up, I sat there with my phone in my hand.
I opened Vanessa’s texts. Looked at the Scottsdale dates she’d resent. Added them to my calendar. Set a reminder to check the travel schedule. Responsible. Normal.
Then I opened Coach Reid’s thread.
I stared at it until the screen dimmed.
There was no reason to text him. None. I had tomorrow’s sheet. I knew the schedule. I had confirmed media. My equipment was handled. My life was not currently on fire.
I typed anyway.
On that neutral-zone clip from yesterday, if Lowell pulls F1 low but Milo is late middle, do you still want me underneath or can I delay and let the weak side develop?
Hockey. On the surface, it was hockey.
My thumb hovered before I sent it because some last sane part of me tried to step in front of the train.
I sent it.
The reply did not come immediately.
That was worse. I got up, put my plate in the sink, forgot I had no plate, opened the fridge, closed it, checked the phone, hated myself, checked the notebook, then checked the phone again.
Finally, his name lit up.
Underneath first. If Milo is late, you become the delay. Do not chase the option before support is established.
I read it twice.
Then another message appeared.
You knew that.
My breath caught somewhere uncomfortable.
I typed, Wanted to make sure.
Three dots.
Then: No. You wanted contact.
The apartment went very quiet.
