Page 13 of The Off Limits Captain
Fair hit.
“Peyton,” I say.
“Jennifer.”
The elevator opens.
Jennifer walks me to a conference room overlooking the practice rink. Marc Nichols joins us after two minutes, assistant GM polish in human form.
“We’re excited about the possibility of a thoughtful piece,” Jennifer says.
“Thoughtful usually means flattering.”
Jennifer folds her hands. “It means accurate.”
“Then we want the same thing.”
Her eyes stay steady. “Public narratives affect players.”
“So do private ones.”
There it is. The small pause.
The one people give when they realize I have not come to transcribe a brand packet.
Below us, practice starts.
Ryan is easy to find.
The ice organizes around him without his asking it to.
He takes a pass through the neutral zone, cuts toward the slot, and releases without extra movement. Fast. Beautiful in a way that irritates me because I cannot call it packaging.
Evan McKinney is on the opposite blue line, stick dangling from one hand like he is bored by physics. A forward tries to chip past him. Evan steals the puck off the wall and sends it cross-ice through a lane I do not see until the pass is already there.
Ryan sees it.
His head turns half an inch.
Nothing else.
Still, I write: McKinney read. McAllister clocked it. Did not love it.
“You are interested in Evan,” Marc says.
“I am interested in anyone Ryan McAllister notices.”
Jennifer and Marc exchange the smallest look.
A rookie drifts too high during the next drill, and Ryan catches it before the coach does. One tap of his stick. One glove gesture. The rookie adjusts.
He does not lecture or perform.
Then Ryan skates past the kid and says something too low for us to hear. The rookie’s shoulders loosen. He laughs once, quick and embarrassed, then gets back into position.
Care disguised as command.
I write it down.
