Page 28 of The Grumpy Defenseman
Me: We had soup.
Bella: SOUP? Are you telling me you went from a jazz club kiss to SOUP? Samantha Cole, you are the slowest-burning romance novel I’ve ever had to live through, and I am RIVETED.
But it was the most honest meal I had eaten in three years, and I could still taste it.
Samantha
Istayed late because the light was wrong.
That was the official reason.
By seven, the facility had emptied. Players were gone. Coaches too. The admin wing had gone dim behind its glass doors, leaving my laptop fan and the click of my mouse to sound louder than they should.
The campaign selections were open across my screen.
Brick with a kid on his shoulders. Evan crouched in front of the boy from thecommunity event, his hand steady on the child’s grip.
I should have moved past that folder.
I did not.
Editing was not passive. You cleared away distractions until the truth had less room to hide.
My phone buzzed.
Bella: I have had time to process the soup update.
Bella: I have follow-up questions.
Bella: Were there spoons?
I turned the phone over.
Absolutely not. I was not discussing spoon proximity with an assistant district attorney who treated boundaries like hostile witnesses.
I moved to the media day portraits.
Evan on the mark. Body turned exactly where I had told him. Chin lifted half an inch. Eyes finally on me.
The frame was sharp enough to hurt.
The frame was all control on the surface and recognition underneath.
By the time I packed up, the facility was mostly dark.
I passed the rink entrance and did not look in.
The elevator dropped one floor.
The doors opened.
The garage was concrete and trapped heat under fluorescent light. My car sat three rows down, alone except for a maintenance van and a dark truck near the far wall.
I took two steps before the truck became a problem: I knew it.
Evan leaned against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, head tipped slightly down. Jeans. Plain black T-shirt. No phone in his hand. No obvious reason for being in a nearly empty parking garage at eight nineteen on a Thursday night.
My pulse did something unhelpful.
