Then I read my article again.
Looking for regret.
I find none.
What I find is the clearest version I could write.
That should be enough.
It is not.
Ryan
Tuesday morning
I read the article in front of my stall before practice.
I make it one paragraph before the locker room gets too loud.
Not actually. The guys are doing what they always do. Tape ripping. Skates clacking. Colt complaining about a protein shake. Finn reviving the cereal-soup argument because apparently winning has consequences.
Normal morning.
I am the problem.
I keep reading.
Peyton does not make me a hero.
She does not make the organization a villain.
She does something worse.
She tells the truth in a way no one can dismiss without proving her point.
Then I reach the paragraph that stills my hand.
McAllister’s discipline is admirable. His quiet protects his team. But at some point, distance stops being strength and becomes something else: a way to avoid confrontation, a way to stay intact by never risking the mess of connection. He leads, but often from far enough away to keep himself safe.
I lock the phone.
Open it again.
Read it a second time.
Then a third.
“You good, Cap?” Zach asks.
“Fine.”
“That your fine or normal-human fine?”
Zach raises both hands. “Asking for the room.”
Kowalski walks past with his stick. “He is not normal human.”
Finn, from two stalls down, says, “Confirmed.”
