"They lived in Fort Collins," I said, not sure why I was still talking. "When I left, anyway. They could be anywhere now."
"Fort Collins isn't far."
"It's far enough." I stood abruptly, unable to sit still anymore. "I should get back to work. The rookies have physicals scheduled, and I need to review their files."
Nancy didn't try to stop me. She just watched with that knowing expression that said she understood I was running but wouldn't call me on it.
"Cinder." Her voice caught me at the door. "Whatever you decide about Taranis, about your family, about any of it—you don't have to decide alone. You know that, right?"
I turned back, something loosening slightly in my chest despite everything. "I know."
"Good." She smiled, warm and fierce. "Now go be brilliant. And if anyone gives you trouble about that article, send them to me."
I almost laughed. "I'm pretty sure you terrify half the team and the coaching staff."
"Only half?" She raised an eyebrow. "I'm losing my touch."
I left her office feeling lighter than I had in days, even though nothing had actually changed. The rookie physicals took longer than expected—three of them had paperwork discrepancies that needed sorting, and one kid was so nervous about the blood draw that I had to talk him through breathing exercises for ten minutes before he'd let me near him with a needle. I also had to handle medicals for a player that had been transferred to us at the last second before the window closed.
By the time I finished, my shoulders ached and my eyes burned with the kind of exhaustion that went deeper than physical. I gathered my things, said goodbye to Nancy, and headed for the parking lot with nothing on my mind except a hot shower and maybe four hours of sleep before I had to be back for tonight's game.
My car sat alone in the far corner of the lot, looking even more pathetic in the afternoon light than it had this morning. The rust on the fender had spread since last week, and I made a mental note to check whether the muffler was still attached or just hanging on through sheer stubbornness.
I was halfway across the asphalt when I saw him.
Gavin leaned against a silver sedan parked two spaces from my car, arms crossed, that familiar half-smile on his face that used to make my stomach flip. Now it just made my skin crawl.
"Cinder." He straightened as I approached, holding up both hands like he was surrendering. "Before you say anything—"
"What are you doing here?" My voice came out flat. Cold. Good.
"I needed to see you." He took a step closer, and I took one back, keeping the distance between us. "You won't answer your phone, and I couldn't just—"
"You couldn't just what? Take no for an answer?" I clutched my keys tighter, the metal biting into my palm. "How did you even know where I work?"
"It's not exactly a secret." He gestured vaguely at the building behind me. "Colorado Dragons. It's all over the news."
Right. The article. The one that had dragged up every painful detail of my past and spread it across the internet for strangers to pick apart.
"You need to leave," I said.
"Just give me five minutes." He moved closer again, and this time I didn't retreat. I stood my ground, even though my heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. "Please, Cin. I know you're upset. But you're not seeing the whole picture."
"I saw it just fine," I said. "You wrote an exposé about a child's death using information I told you in confidence while I was grieving. You named me specifically. You got a promotion out of it."
"That's not what happened." He rubbed the back of his neck like this whole thing was exhausting. "You're twisting it. I never used anything you told me directly. I protected you as much as I could."
"You printed my name."
"Because it was already in the records." His voice softened, patient, like he was explaining something obvious to a child. "Cin, that information was public. Anyone could have found it."
"And I was just collateral damage."
"No," he said quickly. "You're acting like I targeted you. I didn't. I was exposing the hospital. The system. I thought if people knew what really happened, they'd have to change things."
"And ruining my life was acceptable collateral for that?"
He frowned slightly, like the question itself was unfair. "No one's life was ruined," he said. "You're working for an NHL team now. Seems like things turned out pretty well for you."