Ryan’s hand flexes once around the helmet.
“I am,” he says.
Bob’s gaze moves between us, then settles on Silas. “Get him out clean. No cameras. Roman has the room for the rest of the night. Tell Sully I said family emergency, nothing else.”
“Roman already has the A,” Silas says.
“Then he knows what to do.”
Jennifer nods once and starts moving.
Ryan turns toward the locker room.
For half a second, his hand brushes mine as he passes.
Not held.
Not even enough for anyone else to name.
Enough for me to know he is shaking.
Ryan
Seven minutes.
Seven minutes is how long it takes me to stop being the captain of the San Antonio Stampede.
Before I leave the bench, Coach Sully catches my shoulder.
Not hard.
Enough.
His face is turned away from the nearest camera. His mouth barely moves.
“Go,” he says. “Roman has the room.”
I stare at him for one second too long.
Sully’s grip tightens.
“Do not make me tell you twice.”
So I go.
Jersey off. The jersey goes face down on the bench.
Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Gloves. Shin guards.
Each piece hits the floor with a hollow thud. The locker room is empty because the game is still going.
My game.
My team.
My first-period goal still lives somewhere in the building, replaying on screens while I stand barefoot on cold concrete with my mother’s name beating in my skull.
Mom.
