“I am telling you because I want this thing between us to survive what I know, not because I expect it to get smaller.”
I look at her then.
She is wearing my hoodie. Sitting in my kitchen. Asking me to love her without managing her.
“I do not love it,” I say.
“I did not expect you to.”
“But I am still here.”
Her mouth softens. “I noticed.”
I reach across the counter and close my hand over hers.
Not agreement.
A choice.
The broadcast stays muted. The laptop stays open.
The coffee stays bad.
For one ordinary night, we let all of it stay.
Ryan
Practice before the playoffs feels different.
Tighter. Quieter in the wrong way. The room has taken stock of what the final push cost and is still deciding whether it has enough left for more.
My hip is stiff. Awkward fall from the clinch game that I haven’t reported because Maren has enough on her clipboard. I stretch through it on the far end while the ice fills up around me. No cameras today. Media availability isn’t for another two hours.
I take a hard lap to test the hip. It holds.
Colt Riley circles past me skating backward, helmet crooked. “You look like my dad before tax season.”
“Move.”
“That means good morning in Ryan.”
“It means move.”
Colt moves. He keeps talking, which is a different problem.
The breakout drill starts at ten sharp. Coach Sully runs it tight: two waves, neutral zone reset, clear out and go again. Volkov in net for the first sequence.
Finn is over the red line before the whistle.
“O’Sullivan,” I say.
Finn pulls up. “I was getting position.”
“You were getting eager. There’s a difference.”
Finn mumbles something toward the ice. Zach hears it and looks away.
I do not ask what it is.
