I hate that most.
“She’s here now,” Silas says.
Of course she is.
“I’ll send talking points,” Silas says.
I open the door.
“McAllister.”
Silas’s voice lowers. “Do not make this harder than it has to be.”
I look back. “You first.”
At 10:58, I delete the talking points without reading past Captain McAllister is proud to represent.
At 10:59, I see Peyton through the glass, notebook open, chin held high as if the room has already tried to corner her and failed.
At 11:00, she looks up.
I forget the first approved sentence I never planned to use.
Not because she is beautiful. Peyton Hayes looks inconvenient. Like a locked door with a pulse behind it. Like she might ask for the one thing I do not know how to give and then make me want to give it anyway.
Peyton taps her pen once against the notebook.
Impatient, not nervous.
Neither of us smiles.
Peyton
Practice does not sound like a game.
That is the first thing I write down.
No anthem. No crowd. No broadcast music trying to bully the building into drama. Just blades cutting the ice, pucks snapping off sticks, coaches calling corrections, and men talking in shorthand.
From the media rail above the lower bowl, I can see the entire shape of the Stampede at once.
Ryan is not the loudest person on the ice.
That is almost disappointing.
Finn O’Sullivan fills silence like it has insulted his mother. Colt Riley turns every drill into a one-man comedy revue. Evan McKinney skates with the loose arrogance of a man who believes structure is useful mostly because it gives him something to violate with style.
Lex Volkov, in net, taps his left post, then his right, then drags one skate through the crease before every rep.
I write: Volkov crease ritual. Left-right-sweep. Do not call superstition unless confirmed.
On the ice, Finn tries to jump a passing lane early and gets burned when Zach slides the puck behind him.
“Again,” Ryan says.
One word. Not loud.
Finn circles back.