Page 42 of The Grumpy Defenseman
My angles did not require Evan. There were twenty-five other athletes in this room, and each of them deserved the same professional attention I give everyone.
That was the trick with teams like this. Men could spend three hoursshoulder to shoulder and talk about the things that mattered with military discipline. The Stampede did loyalty loud and discomfort quiet.
He glanced at me. I looked through him, the way you look through a window when you are focused on the distance beyond the glass.
Something in his stride faltered.
Half a step. A micro-hesitation any other photographer in the world would have missed.
I did not miss it.
I just did not respond to it.
Practice ended. Players filtered out. The room emptied with the gradual deflation of a space that had held too many bodies and too much noise. I packed my camera bag with methodical care: lens cap, body, strap, zip.
Evan was near the door. Not blocking it. Not waiting. Just present. The way a man is present when he knows he should leave, but his feet have not gotten the message.
I walked toward the exit. He was in my peripheral vision, a gravitational anomaly I was choosing to treat as furniture.
As I passed him, I said two words.
“See you tomorrow.”
I kept walking. Through the lobby. Into the parking lot, where the San Antonio sun was already turning the asphalt into a mirror.
My phone buzzed.
Bella: Tonight. You and me. Non-negotiable. Wear something that isn’t emotional body armor.
I stared at the message for three seconds. Then typed back:
Me: Pick me up at 8.
Samantha
Bella drove the way she argued in court: precise, fast, and with total disregard for anyone who was not ready.
She pulled up at eight on the dot in her black Audi, music already loud enough that I could hear it through the closed windows, and tapped the horn once. A sharp prosecutorial summons disguised as a car horn.
I came out in the jeans and black top she had specifically forbidden me from wearing.She looked at me through the passenger window, sunglasses low, assessment complete in under two seconds.
“I said don’t wear emotional body armor.”
“This is my going-out top.”
“This is your hiding top. There’s a difference.” She unlocked the door. “Get in. We’re going somewhere with music, questionable lighting, and men who don’t play hockey.”
I got in. The music wrapped around me, something from the late 2000s, unapologetic and loud, the soundtrack of a woman who had decided tonight was going to happen whether I cooperated or not.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Somewhere you haven’t been sad yet.”
“I’m not sad.”
She shot me a look over her sunglasses, the kind of look cross-examined witnesses probably saw right before they changed their testimony.
“Samantha.”
