"Cole."
"I'm being supportive."
Her eyes stay on the screen. "You're being annoying."
"Both."
She looks up, and the glasses make her look like a professor who would ruin a man academically, then correct his grammar on the way out. I find this unreasonably attractive. She knows it too. More often than her prescription requires, she wears them, and we both keep pretending I'm subtle about staring.
The concussion piece is going to win her an award. She has spent eight months building it from a retired enforcer's wife, training staff interviews, leaked medical records, and public filings that looked harmless until Maya put them side by side and made them confess. Hockey is the beat. Investigation is what she does with the piece she won't let go of until every document lines up.
Dante's phone buzzes on the counter. Over the stove, he glances at it. His jaw tightens in that old family way before the rest of his face goes still while the garlic hisses in the pan.
Marco: Fundraiser next month. Milan. We want all three of you. No excuses this time.
One-handed, Dante types back, stirring with the other. His expression stays flat as his shoulders set half an inch lower before he turns the heat down.
My phone buzzes a minute later. A photo from Addison fills the screen, the new Briarcliff recruiting class on the ice, fresh-faced kids in navy jerseys with clean gloves, perfect tape jobs, and their first real season waiting for them. Underneath:Built different this year. Reminds me of your group. Tell D I said hello.
I show Dante the photo over the stove. He looks at it, and his mouth twitches with the almost-smile.
"He's never going to stop coaching," Dante says.
"He's never going to stop comparing every class to ours."
Dante turns back to the pan. "Because every class is worse than ours."
"Obviously."
I carry my phone to the couch. From the group chat, active for eight years and pinging at all hours across four time zones, a third message buzzes in.
Declan: Talia's white coat ceremony is June 12. Penthouse after. All of you. Non-negotiable.
Adrian: We're there. Clara already bought a gift.
Gio: We're in. Zoë already bought her outfit.
Genny: I'll be there. Booking the flight tonight.
Adrian: One hotel room, Cole? Three people? The math checks out.
Maya: The math has always checked out.
I lock the phone. Dante glances over from the stove.
"Talia's ceremony?" he asks.
"June. Everyone's coming."
Reaching for the plates, Dante says, "Declan's going to cry."
"Declan doesn't cry."
"Declan is going to stand in a corner with his arms crossed and his jaw locked and his eyes will be completely dry and everyone in the room will know he's crying."
"That's the Declan version of crying. It counts."
Onto the counter, Dante slides a plate. Pasta. Sauce from scratch. The one Serena taught me, the one he has perfected over a hundred Sunday nights.
