"You almost gave me a heart attack with that breakaway," I say, my voice coming out steadier than my pulse, my heart still hammering against my ribs.
"You loved it." His grin is wide and loose, still riding the goal horn. "Write something incredible about it."
"You'll get one sentence."
"Harsh." His thumb presses into the muscle of my shoulder, the pressure deliberate and possessive. My breath catches loud enough that I'm sure he hears it. "Elm House tonight?"
"I have to file."
"File fast."
"Cole—"
"Maya." His voice drops. The grin fades. "Come. Please."
I look at him. The word "please" sits in his mouth like it costs him. A flash of memory surfaces—a glass of water sittingoutside my bedroom door the week after Richard's house. Every morning. No knock. Just the faint sound of footsteps walking away before I opened it.
"I'll be there," I say.
His hand squeezes my shoulder once, thumb pressing deep into the muscle. Then he jogs back toward the locker room, and I'm left standing there, my skin tingling where he touched me.
I turn toward the media room. My press badge swings against my chest. My notebook presses against the inside of my jacket pocket. Cole's handprint is still warm on my shoulder, the pressure lingering where his thumb dug in, and I have to force myself not to touch the spot.
At the hallway corner, where the media-room corridor meets the player tunnel, movement catches my eye. A figure in full gear leans against the cinderblock wall opposite the locker room door. Arms folded. Dante.
My heartbeat trips, stutters, then restarts faster.
His head is angled toward the space I just vacated. The spot where Cole held me. Where my feet left the ground. Then his gaze shifts. Finds mine. Two seconds.
My throat tightens. The hallway narrows, the edges going soft while the center sharpens on his face, his jaw, the way his chest moves under the pads with each breath. My pulse taps frantically in my wrists, and a fresh wave of heat floods my body, equal parts fear and desire.
His mouth is set in that same dismissive line I've catalogued a hundred times, the one that usually means quiet contempt. But his eyes are wrong—the usual tightness around them is gone. The muscle along his jaw tightens once at the space I just vacated, then again when he finds my eyes, both flexes faster than what he showed in the press room. The pattern is familiar from six years of observation. The variant is new, and it makes my breath hitch.
His arms unfold slowly, falling to his sides. His fingers are open, spread, like he caught himself reaching and stopped. They close. Open. Close.
He pushes off the wall. The first step is too quick, almost a lunge. He corrects on the second. Walks straight toward me. Close enough that the air shifts when he passes, cool then warm. The smell of ice and sweat trails him, darker and heavier this close. Close enough that I hear the breath he takes, sharp and controlled. The hair on my forearms lifts. My stomach drops.
He keeps walking, past me toward the locker room, not looking back.
Standing where he passed, my lungs are holding air I forgot to release. I exhale, and the breath comes out uneven, shaky. I close my mouth and breathe through my nose until the rhythm steadies. My hand reaches for the notebook. My fingers fumble the pocket, miss the opening, try again, pull it free. Finding the pen is harder. My grip is wrong on it, clumsy. I adjust, my hands still trembling.
D.V.—post-game tunnel. Observed C.M. embrace from approx. 20 ft. Expression: unclassified variant. Brow relaxed from baseline tension. Jaw flex x2, faster than baseline. Hands open/close x2 at sides. Possible aborted reach. First step: too quick, self-corrected. Duration of eye contact: 2 sec. Passed within arm's reach. Proximity: deliberate. Audible breath: held/controlled. Unexplained.
I close the notebook and slide it back into my pocket, my heart still pounding. I head toward the media room. My story waits to be filed. If the Daily publishes Monday, Kenji will be standing at my desk by nine.
Monday morning. The Chronicle office. I'm at my desk before eight. The Daily's homepage sits open on my screen. I refresh it. Wait. The page reloads. Nothing.
The hockey preview is already live. Clean copy. My byline sits under the headline. Cole appears in the office doorway with two coffees in his hands. He pauses there for half a beat, his eyes scanning the room before they land on me, and his expression changes, softens, before he crosses the room and drops into the chair across from me.
"Whisperer posted about Gio's sealed record last week," he says, his voice casual, but his knuckles are white where he's gripping the cup.
"I'm aware."
"And you killed it."
I lift my eyes from the screen, meeting his gaze head-on. "I killed a pitch from Kenji to cover it. The sourcing is garbage."
"But you could have run something."
