Not the hockey question. Players texted about systems. Not often at eleven at night, and not usually after staring at a thread long enough that I could feel the hesitation through a screen, but it happened. The question had been legitimate. The answer had been simple.
The silence after my accusation was not simple.
It sat in my head while I showered. It followed me downstairs, where Olivia stood at the kitchen island in a blouse and bare feet, answering email with a coffee in one hand.
“You’re up early,” she said without looking away from her laptop.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Team stuff?”
“Yes.”
It was not a lie, but it wasn’t honest enough to feel good.
She glanced up then. “Big day?”
“Practice. Meetings. Media prep for tomorrow.”
“Sounds like every day.”
“Most days are the same on purpose.”
That got a small smile from her. “You and your routines.”
I poured coffee. Tiny lumbered in, pressed his head against Olivia’s hip, accepted two absent scratches, then abandoned her to sit on my foot.
“Traitor,” she told him.
“He respects structure.”
“He respects whoever has keys.”
She closed her laptop halfway and looked at me more closely. “You’re carrying something.”
I kept my expression neutral. “Roster decisions.”
“Mm.”
Olivia had always been smart enough not to push when pushing would only make me shut down. It was one of the things I loved about her. It was also one of the ways we had learned to stop asking each other for more.
She reached across the island and squeezed my hand once. “Try to eat lunch today.”
“I will.”
“You say that like a man who will forget.”
“I’m a man with staff.”
“Your staff shouldn’t have to feed you.”
“They’d agree.”
She smiled, then opened her laptop again.
I left ten minutes later with the aftertaste of coffee and guilt in my mouth.
At the arena, normal chaos was already in progress.
