The room shifts.
Evan nods once, like he respects the admission more than any defense I could have offered.
Coach steps in before the room breaks open. “Bus leaves in thirty. Finn, with Doc. Everyone else, move.”
His eyes find me.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Tomorrow means not in front of the room.
On the bus, Peyton sits three rows back again. Notebook closed. Pen idle.
I take my seat and put on my headphones.
No music.
The highway unrolls dark outside the window. My knuckles ache where glove and boards compressed bone. My shin throbs. My jaw hurts from holding back everything else.
In the glass, Peyton’s reflection watches my hands.
She does not write.
I can handle being judged.
Being understood gives me nowhere to put my hands.
Peyton
The bus is wrong after Houston.
Thirty men who should be loud with victory or mean with frustration are held in a silence that feels like a held breath. No one looks at Finn for long. No one looks at Ryan unless Ryan is looking elsewhere.
They are closing ranks.
I understand it.
I hate that I understand it.
Ryan sits three rows ahead of me with his headphones on and nothing playing. I know because the cord is unplugged from his phone. His hands rest on his thighs, fingers slightly curled, knuckles bruised under the tape.
Tonight, it looks like he is pretending to sleep.
Evan McKinney sits across the aisle from him, wide awake, one knee bouncing, mouth hard. He looks less angry than interested in what anger did to the room.
That is not comforting.
Colt whispers something to Zach. Zach shakes his head. Finn, two rows back with Doc Aris, keeps touching the edge of the ice pack like he wants proof the injury belongs to him.
I should be writing down the seating chart. Who talks. Who does not. Who blames whom without saying it.
My notebook stays closed.
Ryan’s eyes open in the window reflection and meet mine.
His eyes are blue in the glass, cold and aware.
He sees me seeing too much.