Page 8 of The Grumpy Defenseman
And I had stood there at the boards like an idiot and watched it happen without taking a single photograph.
Because some moments were not meant to be taken. They were meant to be kept.
I pulled out of the lot and drove toward downtown, window cracked, letting San Antonio’s morning soundtrack fill the car: a pickup rattling bass at a red light, Spanish sports radio spilling from an open work van, someone already arguing about the heat before nine a.m. Normal sounds. Sounds that did not remind me of blades on ice or the way a man’s voice dropped half a register when he said something honest without meaning to.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder. I glanced at the screen.
Bella: You alive? You were supposed to text me last night. I assume you were either murdered or doing something interesting. Both require details.
Isabela Rey. Assistant district attorney, and the only person in San Antonio who hadlooked at me during our first meeting like I was a person instead of a résumé. We had met six weeks ago when she needed headshots for the DA’s office website. I had taken her photos, she had taken me to a rooftop bar, and by two a.m., we were dancing on furniture and sharing a cab home like we had known each other for years instead of hours.
She was the kind of friend who texted at seven a.m. and expected a response by 7:01, because boundaries were something that happened to other people.
Me: Alive. Long morning. Tell you later.
Bella: That’s code for something happened. I’m blocking out lunch. You’re not allowed to say no.
I should say no. I should go back to my condo, spend three hours in Lightroom, and eat a sandwich over my keyboard like a normal emotionally avoidant person.
Me: Fine. Noon. Pick somewhere withgood coffee.
Bella: Already did. You’re predictable when you’re spiraling.
I parked at the training facility and walked inside. The lobby was quiet, early enough that the front desk staff was still setting up, the air heavy with pre-activity stillness.
Brick was leaning against the wall near the weight room, scrolling his phone with the focused intensity of a man who was definitely not reading anything important. Even in warmups, he carried the kind of casual authority that made rookies straighten and let the other veterans forgive him more than they probably should.
He looked up the second I appeared. “You look like someone showed you a magic trick and then refused to explain it.”
I stopped walking. “That’s annoyingly accurate.”
“I’m perceptive.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Same skill set.” He pocketed his phone and fell into step beside me. “Rink session went well?”
“Define well.”
“You’re alive. McKinney didn’t scare you off. You’re back for more. I’d call that well.”
“He’s different on the ice,” I said before I could stop myself.
Brick’s expression changed. Not dramatically, but enough. The grin softened into something more authoritative than clown, the version of him the room probably got behind closed doors when someone needed calling back into line.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the real him.”
“I figured.”
“He doesn’t let people see that.”
“I figured that too.”
We walked in silence for a few steps, the kind of quiet you could only share with someone who did not need to fill it.
“Brick,” I said. “Why do you lookout for him?”
He glanced at me sideways. “Because he won’t do it for himself.”
