My hand is at the drawer before I decide to open it.
The notebook sits under the Chronicle proofs where it always is. I open it to the wrong page.
D.V.—left hand on Cole's neck, 11:47 p.m., Elm House kitchen. Duration: 6 sec. Cole leaned into contact. Pressure assessment: firm. No resistance observed.
Cole—mentioned D.V. three times in 10-min conversation. Redirected twice when I asked about Cole's own game. Redirection method: subject change. Deliberate.
D.V.—eye contact with me across the arena, second period, 14:23 remaining. Held for 3 sec. I looked away first. Distance: approximately 140 feet, press box to home bench.
D.V.—post-game corridor, away jersey still on, stopped walking when Cole touched his elbow. Full stop. Mid-stride. Three seconds before he kept moving. I watched from the press box stairs, eighteen steps above the corridor. My pen made a mark on the railing and I didn't feel it until later. The ink was on my thumb for two days.
I flip toward the front. The earliest entry waits there. Thanksgiving break, junior year of high school. Richard's house. The basement with the wood paneling Richard spent two weekends installing, the couch that smelled like old carpet, the single overhead light that turned everything amber.
D.V.—right hand, back of C.M.'s neck. C.M.'s mouth on D.V.'s throat. Basement. Door ajar approx. 4 inches. Duration of observation before leaving: 4 sec. Lighting: low, single fixture, amber cast. Distance from door to subjects: 9 feet, estimated. Original entry recorded following morning from memory. Transcribed to this notebook freshman year.
Four seconds: the staircase under my feet, the sixth step that always creaked, the cold in the air, the glass of water I never got. Dante's bitten-off groan through the four-inch gap. Cole's fingers twisting in the fabric of Dante's shirt.
My mouth goes dry now, sitting at this desk, the same fucking dryness that climbed my throat that night in Richard's basement.
Later, back upstairs, my hand still cold from the railing, my throat still dry, I lay in bed cataloging what I'd seen until the ceiling went gray with morning: the position of the hand, theangle of the jaw, the sound that carried through the four-inch gap, low, unguarded.
They've never asked what I heard through that four-inch gap, and I've never offered a goddamn word.
I turn to a blank page.
C.M.—bench conversation. Name drop deliberate. My reaction: monitored. My pulse: elevated within 2 sec of hearing D.V.'s name. Invitation followed immediately. Thumb deviation at door: half-inch from established pattern, bare skin, 1 sec. Callus texture registered. Nerve response: clavicle to third rib. Filed under: the routine cracked.
D.V.—observed watching from arena door during bench conversation. Duration: estimated 5 min. Observer position rotated to him. My awareness of his observation: triggered by C.M.'s glance, then sustained. Physical response: increased heart rate, heat spread sternum to thighs. Mouth response: wet.
I stop, and the pen hovers over the page. Three years of entries sit without a final line, and my hand presses harder on the pen than the sentence needs—the barrel digs into my second knuckle, turning the skin white where it compresses. The impression will bleed through to the next page, the pressure pressed into paper I haven't even fucking written on yet.
The press badge is still in my pocket. The laminated edge presses against my thigh through the fabric.Maya Maddox, Editor-in-Chief. Badge in the coat. Notebook in the drawer.
The arena sits dark through the window at the edge of the quad, two hundred yards from this chair. The lights went off while I was writing.
I turn to a new page and leave it blank.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cole.
Cole: He saw you toss the note. He's coming to the office.
I stare at the words. Then a second text comes through.
Cole: Don't say I didn't warn you.
The doorknob turns before I can stand. It opens, and Dante steps inside. He's still half in his practice gear, sweatpants and a long-sleeved compression shirt that clings to him, his hair damp at the temples. The door closes behind him without a sound. Kenji glances up, clocks Dante, then goes very carefully back to his screen.
Dante finds me in three steps and stops in front of my desk, hands shoved in his pockets. He came straight from the ice—wet collar, practice sweat not yet dry, a fresh red mark along his jaw two inches under his ear, the shape of a stick blade. His attention tracks my desk left to right: monitor, mug, the closed drawer above my left knee. His attention catches on the drawer for half a second, and my stomach tightens before I can stop it.
"Maya." His voice is low and precise. "Cole said you needed the stat line."
"I have it."
"He said you needed it verified."
"I verified it."
"With who?"
