Then I stay in the empty press area longer than I need to. The arena always sounds strange after. Not silent. More like the noise never really leaves; it just sinks into the walls and hums there.
I’ve stayed late in more arenas than I could count. Long enough that it feels less like a habit and more like a reflex. I used to think it was about work. Waiting for the room to clear so I could think. Waiting for the building to become honest again after the performance of people. That’s probably part of it.
The rest of it’s simpler—more embarrassing. I’ve spent a lot of my life leaving places quickly. Sometimes I just like proving to myself I can stay.
So I sit there with the empty rink in front of me and Riley’s text still lit somewhere in the back of my mind and the memory of Jax Mercer’s voice sayingyou came backin a tone that makes me feel like I’ve missed part of the conversation.
Nothing clarifies.
I go home anyway.
Dina is on the steps right on time.
Gray, scarred-eared, ribby, unimpressed.
I put the bowl down three feet away and sit on the step above it.
She waits before approaching, because of course she does. Then comes forward and eats like she’s doing me a favor by continuing to participate in this arrangement.
I tell her about Riley’s text just to unload. She doesn’t care.
I say it anyway.
The piece making the rounds. The water break. The three words at the boards said low and calm like he had every right in the world to ask where I’d gone and whether I’d come back from it.
Dina keeps eating through all of it.
Fair.
When she finishes, she sits there for a second with her thin tail wrapped close. Then she takes one careful step toward me.
Stops.
Thinks better of it.
Disappears into the dark.
I stare at the empty step for a while after she’s gone.
Inside, I go to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, don’t drink it, set it down, pick it up again, then abandon it on the counter and head for the couch instead.
My bag is still by the door. My shoes are still on. I sit there anyway. Eventually I go get my notebook. Not because I’m trying to make more out of this. Just because if I don’t put the line somewhere, it’s going to keep circling until dawn.
I write:
He said you came back like it was the only thing he wanted to know.
I look at it for a long time.
That feels worse than it should.
Or better.
Which is probably the real issue.
I write one more line underneath it. I don’t cross either of them out.
Then I close the notebook and sit there with my hand on the cover like I’ve trapped something alive inside it.
