The drive to the rink is gray and silent, the kind of weather that makes the city feel like it’s holding its breath. I expect the usual—attention that sharpens, jokes that cut, someone trying to see if last night left a bruise.
Instead, the front desk girl glances up and then… re-centers. A smile that’s too normal. Too careful.
“Morning, Rossi,” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer, keycard flashing green. “What’s the headline?”
Her mouth opens, then closes like she remembers she has bills. “Nothing. Just—good game.”
Behind her, Jared from equipment pretends he’s busy with a crate he’s been staring at for thirty seconds.
“You need something?” I ask him.
“Nope,” Jared says too fast. “All set.”
Still, I stop anyway, because the silence is a lie with manners.
“Spit it out.”
Jared glances at my phone. “People are saying you and… you know.”
“I don’t,” I say.
He clears his throat. “Zoë Barnes.”
There it is. Not the name—the way the air changes around it. Like the building itself just adjusted its stance.
“She’s got an ID on file?” I ask, already feeling the answer in my teeth.
Jared blinks. “Uh. Yeah. Coach had us—”
“Had you what?” My voice stays level. That’s the worst part.
He swallows. “Add her to the authorized list.”
Something tightens under my ribs. Surprise never shows. Irritation steps in like it belongs there. Because it worked. Because it’s working without me even having to push.
“And Jared?” I say, stepping past him.
“Yeah?”
“If anybody asks you a question about her,” I tell him, low, “you forgot how to fucking speak.”
His nod is immediate. “Got it.”
Then I keep walking.
The hall is the same. The building is the same. The way it treats me isn’t.
It smells like coffee and disinfectant, sharp enough to wake a dead man. We file in like we always do—helmets on the table, sticks leaned where they’ll get knocked over anyway. Coach stands at the board, arms folded, posture surgical.
I brace for the hit. For a joke. For someone to test the fence.
It doesn’t come.
Adrian drops into the chair beside mine, quiet as a knife sliding home. He doesn’t look at me. That’s new.
Declan takes the opposite side, ritual precise, expression forward.
