Page 120 of The Grumpy Defenseman
She is sitting in a training facility reading the comments section of a sports article about her relationship like a completely normal, well-adjusted person with no emotional vulnerabilities whatsoever.
Sandra found me in the communications room an hour later. She looked tired in a satisfied way, the expression of a woman who had defused a bomb and wanted you to know it had not been easy.
“Handled,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just keep making the campaign look good.”
She paused at the door, one hand on the frame.
“The media-day cover shot I flagged, the one I said was the campaign frame. It ran today. Billboard over Broadway. Two bus wraps on the 281 corridor. It’s doing the work.”
A dry half-smile.
“Turns out the best usable picture of him you took was the one where he was looking at the photographer.”
She let that sit between us for half a second, then added, “For what it’s worth, I meant what I said. I’m rooting for you.”
She left before I could respond, which was her signature move: deliver the important thing and exit before sentiment could accumulate.
I respected Sandra.
I had always respected Sandra.
She had drawn the lines because her job required it. Then, when it mattered, she helped me stay inside them.
Late afternoon, the rink was clearing out.
I was packing my camera bag when a voice I did not recognize made me look up.
One of the younger players, a rookie whose name I had finally learned was Cross, stood a few feet away with a grin that contained zero subtlety and maximum interest.
“So,” he said. “You andMcKinney, huh?”
The entire hallway heard it.
Brick, walking past with his gear bag, slowed to watch. Finn stopped beside him with the open interest of a man who had never met a developing situation he did not want to supervise. Two other players paused mid-conversation. Even the custodian leaning on his mop seemed interested.
Mack did not bother pretending not to listen. Colt leaned against the wall with one shoulder to the cinderblock, tape still on one wrist, wearing veteran stillness that read like permission and warning at the same time. Ryan stood a few feet behind him, quiet and steady, not interfering but making it clear Cross had about three seconds to keep this respectful.
I could have deflected. I could have smiled politely and changed the subject the way I had trained myself to do for three years, keeping my personal life behind a professional perimeter.
I did not.
“Yeah,” I said. Steady. Clear. My voice carried exactly the distance I intended it to. “Me and McKinney.”
Somewhere behind them, Tommy Kowalski barked out a laugh. Jake muttered something that sounded suspiciously like he owed Cross twenty bucks.
Finn looked delighted. Ryan gave one small nod, the kind that felt less like approval and more like confirmation that the room would behave.
The room accepted the news with the practical efficiency of a hockey team.
Chirp it. Move on.
Cross’s grin widened. Brick, behind him, shook his head with the affectionate exasperation of a man watching his idiot friends finally figure out something he had known for weeks.
The hallway resumed its normal noise level. The custodian resumed mopping. The world continued turning.
