He laughs harder.
I say something appropriate to the sponsor. At least I assume I do.
I’m mostly watching her.
The way she moves through a room like she’s not trying too hard even when she absolutely is. The way she listens with her whole face. The way people start giving her more than they meant to and seem almost relieved about it after.
I think about the grocery store. The rock-paper-scissors. The woman who told the truth to a stranger at nine p.m. because apparently that’s just who she is.
I look away before I get caught.
I get caught.
She looks across the room right at me.
Holds it.
One second. Two.
Then turns back to the defenseman like nothing happened.
I turn back to the sponsor like nothing happened.
Neither of us says a word about it.
That’s worse somehow.
Ten minutes later I’m trapped by a hockey equipment sponsor talking blocker design and wrist support.
I say the right things. Ask the right questions.
The whole time I know exactly where she is in the room.
That part has stopped surprising me.
She’s watching me now.
Something shifts in her face, and I think about the empty physio suite. The version of me she saw there. The one I usually keep locked down.
Quick. Controlled. Gone.
She writes something down.
I want to know what made the page.
I don’t ask.
On the way out, the crowd funnels toward the exit and my hand finds the small of her back.
Automatic.
She goes still. Not pulling away. Not uncomfortable. Just—registering it.
Like her whole body took a breath and held it.
I feel her spine straighten slightly under my palm.
She doesn’t move away.
