"The program will know about it. I'm the face of the program. The draft is in three months. If the family compromises a member of the press while my name is on a draft board—"
"Your name is always going to be on something, Dante."
The coffee shop murmurs around us, two students at the counter, an older man reading a newspaper by the window. Marco's voice cuts clean through all of it.
"That's the arrangement," Marco continues. "The draft changes nothing. The NHL changes nothing."
His espresso settles on the saucer.
"She has nothing the family needs," I say. "She covers hockey."
"The program is the family's investment." Marco straightens in his seat. "Access to the program is access to the family's interests." He holds my gaze. "I'll relay what you said. But you should know something."
I wait.
"You've drawn a line around this girl twice now."
The words hang between the cups.
"And Papà counts."
"It's about the draft," I say. "The program."
My grip tightens on the cup. The ceramic creaks faintly under my fingers. I hear it. Marco hears it.
"Okay."
The word lands flat. Marco sets it down and lets it sit there.
"The Providence documents are confirmed," he says. "Usual channel."
I start to stand.
"Dante."
I stop. His eyes stay on mine for a beat longer than the business requires.
"Eat something," he says. "You still look thin."
I leave the coffee on the table. The bell above the door rings as I step out, and cold air hits my face hard enough to make my eyessting. My hands go into my pockets because if I leave them loose, they will stay fists.
Papà counts.The words spread through my chest the way a bruise spreads through muscle.
I start walking back.
The house is empty when I get there. Cole's at his constitutional law study group. I drop my bag by the stairs and change upstairs, then bring my laptop down to the kitchen table. The Blackhawks game loads on the screen, their defensive structure filling the frame. Neutral zone trap, weak-side coverage sliding late.
If they're looking at me, I need to see how I fit.
The video rolls. I pause, rewind, and watch the weak-side forward drift half a stride too high. My jaw is still locked. I force it open, but it locks again within thirty seconds.
Papà counts.
Upstairs, in the desk drawer under the draft preparation folder, her recorder sits where I left it, small, black, untouched for five weeks.
On the screen, the Blackhawks reset into their trap again.
The front door opens.
