Bob studies me.
I let him.
I have nothing left to polish.
“If he finds out you knew and let him keep playing,” I say, “you will not have protected him. You will have used him.”
Bob looks at Silas.
Whatever passes between them is quick.
“Get Colt,” Bob says.
Silas looks over. “Colt?”
“If Jennifer walks to the bench, cameras follow her. If I walk down there, every broadcast director in the building smells blood.” Bob’s eyes stay on the tunnel. “Colt can get to him without making it look like the owner just pulled the captain from a playoff game.”
Jennifer is already moving. “I’ll get word to Coach first.”
“No,” I say.
They all look at me.
My pulse is in my throat. I keep going anyway.
“Tell Coach there is a family emergency and Ryan needs to come off clean. Do not give it to him through five people. Do not let the bench guess. Do not let the broadcast see him learn it from someone’s face.”
Bob’s expression shifts.
Not approval.
Recognition.
“Jennifer,” he says.
“I’m on it.”
The wait is worse than the drive.
The crowd roars once.
A horn sounds.
I cannot tell what happened.
My hands shake inside my sweatshirt pockets. I press my thumb against the edge of the spare battery pack until the plastic bites.
Through the tunnel opening, I see flashes of the bench. Helmets. Towels. A trainer’s shoulder. Coach Sully leaning in, face turned away from cameras.
Then Colt appears first, skates hard on rubber, still in full gear, mouth tight and no joke anywhere on him.
He looks at me once.
Then away.
Ryan rounds the corner behind him in full gear, helmet in one hand, hair damp, face flushed from the game. He is still breathing like the shift is in his lungs.
His eyes find Silas.
