Last night. The staying. The asking. The choice.
My throat tightens. “Me too.”
He kisses me then. Brief. Controlled. Dangerous because it is controlled. Then he walks away with his bag over one shoulder and the whole public world waiting to take another swing at him.
He leaves me the truck. Someone from the team will swing by for him instead.
By eight, the noise is worse.
I am in Susan’s hospital room with coffee going cold in my hand when the first photo lands in my feed. Me at the arena. Baseball cap. Sweatshirt. No credentials. Jennifer in front of me, a restricted corridor behind us.
Former Stampede beat reporter seen inside arena during McAllister departure.
Then the uglier version:
Did Peyton Hayes influence Ryan McAllister’s playoff exit?
There it is. The role they have been waiting to give me.
Not reporter, not woman. Variable.
Susan is propped up against pillows, pretending to hate her breakfast more than she hates being watched by monitors. Billis reading something on his phone. The twins are arguing over whether hospital pancakes count if nobody actually likes them.
My phone rings.
Gil.
I step into the hall.
“I saw the photo,” he says.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Peyton.”
“I delivered a family emergency. That is all.”
“I know. But the story is not behaving like that is all.”
I close my eyes. The fluorescent light hums overhead.
“Are you writing about him?” Gil asks.
“No.”
“Are you covering the team?”
“No.”
“Are you personally involved with the subject of your revoked-profile story?”
The question is clear, brutal, necessary.
I look through the room window. Susan is watching the twins with a tired smile. Bill is pretending not to listen. I think of Ryan’s hand on my neck in the lobby. Ryan saying he is done leaving rooms he wants to stay in.
“Yes,” I say.
Gil exhales, unsurprised and not pleased either.
