Then logic won.
He yanked the bag forward, struggled with the back door for a second before forcing it open, and shoved everything inside with more effort than it should have taken. The gear hit the seat with a heavy, damp thud, the smell of sweat and rubber and old tape filling the car instantly.
He climbed in after it.
Pulled the door shut.
Silence.
I rolled the window back up and shifted into drive without giving it a second thought.
The heater worked overtime, pushing warm air into the space between us. It did nothing to cut the tension.
“Which rink you practice at?” I glanced back threw the rearview.
The kid sat stiff in the backseat, shoulders tight, hands planted on his knees. His breathing was shallow. Trying not to take up space. “Big Bear over on Seventh.”
I drove.
Didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t fill the quiet.
The city passed in slow, familiar patterns. Streetlights. Empty sidewalks. The occasional car cutting through an intersection too fast for the conditions.
“You play for—” he started, then stopped himself.
I didn’t answer.
He knew.
The rest of the drive went back to silence.
When we pulled up to the rink, he moved fast. “Thanks,” he muttered, already reaching for the door.
I nodded once.
He grabbed his bag, nearly tripped over it again, caught himself, and disappeared into the building without looking back.
I waited long enough to make sure the door shut behind him.
Then I pulled away.
Made it half a block.
Stopped.
I stared at the road ahead, fingers tightening slightly against the wheel as the realization settled in, quiet and unavoidable.
He still has to get home.
The engine idled.
The heat hummed.
I turned the car around.
“Alois?”Bea’s voice cut through, pulling me back into the present hard enough that my grip tightened on the wheel before I forced it to loosen.