“No profile that reads like I got invited into the room and forgot who owned it,” I say.
Gil’s expression softens by exactly nothing, which is his version of kindness.
“That’s why it’s your byline. Go report it.”
I take the coffee.
It has oat milk.
He remembered. That is not warmth. It is a man who files away every small thing and spends it when it counts.
I drink it anyway.
Before I email Jennifer, I pull up McAllister’s clips from the night before.
The sports networks love the simple version. Captain controls rookie. Captain scores. Captain wins.
Then I rewind.
Not the goal.
The scrum.
Finn’s gloves dropping.
Ryan’s hand fisting in the rookie’s jersey.
Evan gliding into the edge of the mess with that lazy grin, adding gasoline while pretending he is not holding a match.
Ryan sees both fires at once.
He puts out the one that could cost the game.
I open the team roster.
Evan McKinney. Defenseman. Former first-round pick, acquired in the expansion draft after a messy exit from Denver.
Translation: expensive, talented, irritating.
The kind of player captains tolerate until his game slips.
I add his name to the margin under McAllister.
This is not only a Ryan story. Not if I want the real one.
And still, when I type Jennifer’s name into the address field, the first image in my head is not Evan’s pass or Finn’s temper.
It is Ryan McAllister in the hallway, close enough for a warning to sound like an invitation.
My first problem with Ryan McAllister is not suspicion.
It is that my notes have stopped sounding like notes.
I send the request before I can be reasonable.
Jennifer responds in eleven minutes.
No communications director moves that fast unless she has been waiting, warned, or handed a fire extinguisher before the match hits the floor.