“Sure.”
“Vanessa.”
“No, it’s fine.” She picked up her phone. “I’ll tell them maybe.”
The conversation was over, but not fixed. Nothing had exploded. No slammed doors. No tears. Just another hairline crack running through something we kept pretending was solid because neither of us wanted to be the first one to admit the foundation had shifted.
At the rink, Roman took one look at me and said, “You look like you got haunted by a tax audit.”
I shoved my bag into my stall. “Good morning to you too.”
“It’s almost nine.”
“Then regular morning.”
He sat two stalls down, already half dressed, tape wrapped around his sock. Roman had the kind of stillness goalies got from letting pucks fly at their faces for a living. Most days it annoyed me. Today it made me feel pinned in place.
“You sleep?” he asked.
“Why is everyone obsessed with my sleep?”
“Because you look like garbage and you’re vibrating.”
“I’m always vibrating.”
“Worse than usual.”
I grabbed my shoulder pads. The tag scratched the back of my neck. I yanked it too hard and nearly smacked myself in the face.
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“I was about to ask if you ate.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
“Jace.”
I slammed the pads down harder than necessary. A couple guys glanced over. Milo, from across the room, paused with one skate in his hand.
Roman didn’t move.
“I’m fine,” I snapped. “I don’t need you doing the divorced dad routine before practice.”
The room quieted just enough for me to hear myself.
Roman’s face changed. Not hurt exactly. He’d known me too long to bruise that easy. But something shuttered.
“Got it,” he said.
I hated that tone.
“Ro.”
