Page 130 of The Off Limits Captain

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I tell myself that first.

Then I see the title line.

Silence and Pressure in Pro Hockey.

My hand stills.

Peyton sees it happen.

“It is a long-form pitch,” she says, measured now. “Not a hit piece. Not about one team. Not about you.”

I look at the screen. Pull quotes. Anonymous source notes. Research on injuries, mental health, roster pressure, the way players learn to make pain sound like professionalism.

Too close.

Too accurate.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

“Because I was still figuring out what it was.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it matters.”

I know that tone. Peyton with her spine straight, her eyes steady, saying the hard thing even when it costs her comfort.

I love that about her.

I hate how exposed it makes me feel.

“Guys talk because they think the locker room is the only place they can be ugly,” I say.

Her face tightens, but she does not look away. “I know enough not to use what isn’t given. I know enough to protect sources. I know enough to understand silence is not the same thing as privacy when it is enforced by fear.”

I do not like how much that lands.

I turn the mug slowly against the counter. “This is complicated.”

“Yes.”

“For me.”

“Also yes.”

“For us.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Hurt, then restraint. “Especially yes.”

I want to ask her to close the laptop. I want to ask her to wait. I want to ask for a version of love that does not put me between Peyton and the team that trusted me first.

I do not ask.

Peyton watches me stop myself.

“I am not asking you for permission,” she says softly.

“I know.”

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