I stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the disappointment settle without feeding it. Cinder wasn't running—not from me, not from us. He was protecting what we had the only way he knew how: carefully. Quietly. With the same meticulous attention he brought to everything else.
If someone on the staff saw him leaving my room at six in the morning, the questions would start. And after the reporters, after the article, after Gavin's threats—he couldn't afford questions. Neither could I, really, but I'd spent twenty years hiding. One more secret barely registered.
Still, waking up alone after falling asleep with him felt like having something warm taken away before I'd finished memorizing the shape of it.
I rolled over and pressed my face into the pillow he'd used. It smelled like eucalyptus and skin and something faintly sweet that I couldn't name. My dragon rumbled—not in distress, but in recognition.His.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I grabbed it too fast, nearly knocking the Shackleton book to the floor, and squinted at the screen.
Cinder:Sorry I disappeared. You looked too peaceful to wake up. Also you were doing this thing where you curled around the pillow like a very large, very cold cat and I didn't have the heart to disturb it.
A grin spread across my face before I could stop it. I typed back immediately.
Me:I do not curl.
Cinder:You absolutely curl. I have a medical professional's observational authority on this.
Me:That's not a real credential.
Cinder:It is now. I'm adding it to my résumé. "Certified Goaltender Curl Specialist."
I laughed—actually laughed, alone in a hotel room at seven in the morning—and the sound startled me. When had that gotten so easy?
Me:Thank you for staying last night.
A pause. The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then:
Cinder:Thank you for asking me to.
I held the phone against my chest like an idiot and stared at the ceiling. My dragon purred.
The morning was the usual road-game routine: breakfast in the hotel restaurant, a light optional skate at the arena, video review with the coaching staff. I moved through all of it on autopilot, my body in one place and my mind circling back to Cinder every few minutes like a compass finding north.
We texted between everything.
During breakfast, while Max argued with Keegan about whether Vancouver's coffee was superior to Denver's (it wasn't, and I told him so):
Cinder:Nancy says your save percentage last night was .978. She also says, and I quote, "Tell your boyfriend to stop being so good, it's making the rest of the league look bad."
Me:Tell Nancy I'm flattered and terrified of her in equal measure.
Cinder:That's not the correct ratio. I'd lean more terrified.
During the optional skate, while I worked through light stretching in the crease and tried not to scan the stands for a face I knew wouldn't be there:
Me:How's your morning?
Cinder:Reviewing player files. One of the rookies has a hamstring thing that's been bugging me. Also, I found a vending machine that sells those weird Japanese Kit Kats and I bought six.
Me:What flavors?
Cinder:Matcha, strawberry cheesecake, and something that claims to be "sake" which feels like a liability for a medical professional to consume.
Me:Save me the matcha one.
Cinder:Already did.