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"Bet the guy's a dentist," Jordan says from the stall next to mine, not even looking up. "Or does something with spreadsheets."

"Definitely spreadsheets," Cole agrees. "Coach loves a guy with a 401k."

I make myself laugh at that. It comes out fine. It comes out exactly as fine as it's supposed to, which feels like its own small miracle, because something in my chest just dropped four floors with the cable cut, and I am currently untying and retying a perfectly tied skate for no reason at all.

I type one line into the chat before I can think too hard about it.

Wyatt:

Hope Adam knows what he's in for.

The kind of thing I'd say regardless. The kind of thing that reads as nothing. Three guys react with a laughing emoji before I've even set the phone down.

Nobody looks at me twice. That's the whole point of a group chat. Nobody's supposed to be looking at anybody twice.

Jordan glances over anyway, just for a second, like he's checking something and deciding not to say it.

Then he goes back to his shoes.

The guys pile into two cabs outside the arena, already loud about some bar Camden swears has two-for-one wings on Tuesdays. Jordan grabs my sleeve on the way past.

"You coming or you gonna keep retying that lace all night?"

"Beat. I'm out."

"Man. Don't be such a party pooper."

"I helped on the winning goal, Maddox. Let me have my nap."

He gives me the same look from the locker room, the checking-something look, then shrugs and lets it go because that's Jordan. He presses once, drops it if you don't bite.

I catch a cab alone back to the hotel. Traffic's light this time of night, streetlights strobing through the window in that rhythm that usually helps me not think about anything. It doesn't work tonight.

I peel my boots off out of habit, set them by the door, and sit down on the end of my own bed.

Phone in my hand. Nobody to text. Nothing to say that wouldn't sound insane out loud.

She's over there right now, three hours behind, probably curled up on my couch with Pickles snoring against her leg.

And in a few days she's going to put on something nice. For a guy her dad picked. A guy named Adam who probably has a 401k and knows what fork to use and has never once, in his entire spreadsheet life, had to explain why he flinched at the word "pond."

I have no right to feel the way I'm currently feeling about that.

I feel it anyway.

Just me, a hotel ceiling with a water stain, and the particular flavor of stupid I've apparently signed up for without reading the fine print.

I lie back without bothering to get under the covers.

"You're an idiot, Larkin," I say to the ceiling, quiet enough that it's like I am pretending I am not alone in here.

The ceiling doesn't argue. It just sits there, water-stained and unbothered, agreeing with me by doing absolutely nothing at all.

I turn my phone over in my hand once, twice, thumb hovering over her name in my messages. I don't type anything.

I set it face-down on the nightstand instead and stare at the dark where the ceiling used to be.

My phone buzzes.