"She get home okay?" he asks.
"I told her to lock her door."
"You texted her?"
"Yes."
His hand slows on the mug. "How was she? Last night?"
"We talked." I set my mug down. "She got a phone call while she was here. Her hands were shaking after. She said it was spam."
Cole's mug pauses midway to his mouth. "Shaking how?"
"A tremor. Visible. She tried to hide it."
He sets the mug down. "She told you spam?"
"She told me spam. I knew better."
Cole nods, slow. "She handles it," he says, flat. "She always handles it."
"The Rylan piece," I say. "The one she ran last week about the defensive gap."
"What about it?"
"She was right about the trend. Wrong about the cause. I told her."
"How'd she take that?"
"About as well as you'd expect."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "You told Maya Maddox her analysis was wrong and you're still breathing?"
"Barely."
He drinks his coffee. The kitchen goes quiet, and I keep what I need to keep. The file. The way she looked at me when she saidthe wordequal.Cole is carrying enough, and his grip is already too hard around the mug.
I move through practice, film room, and the afternoon seminar with my body doing what it knows. Addison pulls me aside after to talk about the Eastbrook series. I give him thirty minutes of focused tactical analysis while a file in a woman's notebook could end everything this program has built.
Class lets out at 3:50. My phone buzzes.
Cole.
Have you heard from Maya today?
No. Why would I?
She's not answering my texts. I've sent three since this morning.
Maybe she's busy. She runs a newspaper.
She always answers me. Even when she's busy. Even if it's just a thumbs up. She always answers.
I set my phone down. Pick it up.
And?
And last night she got a phone call that made her hands shake and then she went back to her apartment with no heat and now she's not answering and I'm stuck in this fucking meeting with the athletic director for another two hours.
