Yeah. That’s us.
Somewhere in Tampa Griffin Novak is looking at the same photo right now.
I know that fucker is chomping at the bit.
Four days until Game 1.
Good.
Let him see it coming.
Chapter twenty-six
Nova
“Youcan’tkeepcallingher feral if she lets you put a bowl six inches from her face.”
“She’s negotiating.”
“That’s a relationship, Nova. You’re in a relationship with a cat that doesn’t even live in your house.”
I give her a side eye. Don’t mean to.
We’re in the cafeteria at the rink between rounds. I have my usual — salad bar plate, the specific assembly it took me three weeks to perfect because the kitchen rotates toppings on a schedule I have, embarrassingly, committed to memory.
We’ve done this lunch enough times that it has a rhythm.
Katarina is already onto something else.
“Caleb’s not telling them how bad the hip is. He thinks if he doesn’t say it out loud it isn’t real.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Don’t start.”
Brody walks past with a tray that has — visibly, definitely — a slice of pizza on it.
“Don’t say it,” he says to Katarina without slowing down.
“Brody,” she says.
“Don’t. It’s Tuesday.”
He keeps walking.
The cafeteria is the working version of itself. Trays. Chairs scraping. The hum of a building doing its job.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Face up.
Griffin.
My hand goes to flip it before my brain catches up.
Muscle memory. The way I always handle Griffin — turn the screen down, kill the buzz, deal with it later or never. Manage. Move on. Smile through the next thing.
I get my hand to the phone.