Peyton watches Samantha work.
I watch Peyton watching.
I should be thinking about Houston.
I am thinking about how Peyton’s hair came loose at the nape of her neck and how close her throat was when I leaned over the boards.
Very captainly.
The team bus idles outside Frost Bank Center before sunrise gives up and becomes morning. Engine low, bags loaded, players moving on autopilot.
I board first because I always do. Three rows back, driver’s side, window seat. Aisle open. Headphones ready.
This time, Peyton boards after Marc.
The bus notices.
Not loudly. Hockey players are better than that when they want information. The shift is smaller: Colt’s eyebrows lifting, Zach glancing from me to Peyton and away, Finn pretending not to look at all.
Peyton takes a seat three rows behind me.
The same distance she kept at the rink until I made it irrelevant.
Colt drops into the seat across the aisle with coffee in hand. “Morning, media.”
Peyton looks up. “Morning, liability.”
Colt blinks.
Zach laughs into his coffee.
I keep my eyes forward and hate that I enjoy it.
Finn stumbles on last, nearly tripping over his own bag. “Why do away games always start before the sun’s up?”
“Because you stayed out until two, mixing it up with the locals,” Colt says.
“Lies.”
“Your hair smells like tequila.”
“That’s my conditioner.”
I look back once. “Sit down, O’Sullivan.”
Finn sits.
Evan takes the seat behind me, which never means an easy morning.
“You bringing the reporter to Houston?” Evan asks under the engine noise.
“Organization is.”
“Sure.”
I do not look back. “Say what you mean.”
“I mean a woman with a notebook watched you skate hurt for twenty minutes, watched me embarrass your breakout, andis now on our bus before a road rivalry. That is either trust or stupidity.”