Page 9 of The Grumpy Defenseman
That hit harder than it should have. I did not respond.
Sully appeared at the end of the hallway, coffee in hand, moving with the quiet authority I was beginning to recognize as his default setting. He nodded at me, measured, and paused.
“McKinney didn’t give you trouble?”
“No. He gave me something else.”
Sully’s eyes sharpened. A fractional narrowing, there and gone. The look of a man who had spent too many years reading players to miss what lived under the surface. He did not ask what I meant. He did not need to.
“The campaign’s on track,” he said, tone even. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”
It was not a compliment. It was a checkpoint. And it carried enough weight to remind me that whatever I had seen on that rink, whatever I was feeling about it, thework still had a purpose that was not personal.
I nodded. He walked on.
From somewhere inside the facility, I heard the distant clang of weights and the muffled sound of a TV. A sports anchor’s voice reached me through the walls in fragments: “… McKinney’s contract extension expected to be a priority… sources say multiple teams monitoring the situation…”
Contract year. The words settled into the context of everything I had seen. The calculated interactions. The man standing by every exit in every room was being watched by people who would decide his future based on how he performed in spaces exactly like this one.
No wonder he treated every public moment like a performance review. For him, it was.
I pushed into the weight room, set up my equipment, and got back to work. The day had jobs in it. The deadlinesdid not care about magic tricks or ice rinks or the way a man’s whole body changed when he forgot someone was watching.
Sandra had already emailed tomorrow’s schedule. Another community appearance. Another room full of kids, cameras, handlers, and athletes being asked to look effortless under fluorescent lights.
Evan’s name was on the list. Of course it was.
I could already picture him near the nearest exit, expression locked, body braced, waiting for the first acceptable moment to disappear.
Whether he was keeping people out or keeping himself in.
Samantha
The bus smelled like Icy Hot and a cologne that seemed to come standard with every professional sports contract.
I climbed aboard and felt the room adjust: twenty-six heads clocking the new variable and returning to whatever they had been doing once they decided I was not interesting enough to stare at. Standard protocol. I had boarded enough team buses to know the hierarchy: rookies up front, the untouchables in the backrow where the speakers were loudest, and the supervision was thinnest.
Evan sat alone near the rear exit. Hood up. Tension registering through every line of him. He did not look at anyone. He looked at the window like it owed him money.
Good morning, Mr. Sunshine. So glad to see you’ve embraced the joy of community outreach.
Brick waved me toward the middle section like a man directing air traffic. “Cole! Sit with me. I need someone with an IQ above room temperature.”
“That eliminates most of this bus,” I said, dropping into the seat across the aisle.
“Exactly my point.”
The bus lurched out of the parking lot and into San Antonio traffic. I settled in, camera bag between my feet, mentally reviewing the shot list for the community appearance. Standard setup: players interacting with kids, photo ops, the whole machine of organized goodwill.
My phone buzzed.
Bella: I looked up your hockey team. One of them goes by BRICK. I need you to confirm he’s as ridiculous as that nickname suggests.
Me: More.
Bella: I need to come to a game. For legal research purposes.
Me: You’re a prosecutor. What legal research?
