The Stampede win 3-2.
The building celebrates like the playoffs have already started.
Ryan comes off the ice last, helmet in one hand, sweat dark at his collar, mouth set in the line that means he is already moving through the next problem.
I catch him near the service corridor before PR can reroute me.
“Ryan.”
He stops.
Not because I am media. Because I am me.
That distinction is becoming a problem.
His eyes move over my face. “Not a good time.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
I keep my voice low. “Is there anything happening with Finn I should know about?”
For half a second, Ryan does not answer.
Not long.
Nothing, in print.
Half a second is enough for the man in the diner, Sierra’s voice on the phone, Maren at the bench, and Ryan’s phone face-down in my kitchen to line up into something I do not want to see.
“No,” Ryan says.
The word is clean.
Cleaner than I trust.
He looks back.
Whatever is between us does not move.
“Okay,” I say.
His jaw tightens.
I could press.
I should press.
Instead, I let him go because Sierra is right. I do not have a story about Finn.
Not yet.
But I have a question about the system.
And Ryan McAllister has just made himself part of the answer.
Ryan