Page 34 of The Off Limits Captain
Then he closes his eyes again.
By the time I get back to the Airbnb, my skin feels too tight.
The place smells like lavender plug-ins and someone else’s laundry detergent. Temporary furniture. Temporary dishes. I drop my bag by the door and stand in the living room with the game still lodged under my ribs.
The hit came late.
Ryan chose the answer.
His team paid for it.
All of that is true.
So is the way Finn’s shoulders loosened when Ryan told him it was settled.
I cannot figure out how to write that without sounding like I am defending him.
Or wanting to.
I open my laptop.
Captain Ryan McAllister made a choice tonight.
Delete.
Ryan McAllister retaliated.
Delete.
Leadership is never as tidy as the people selling it want it to be.
I stare at that one for too long.
Then I close the laptop.
The shower is too hot and not hot enough. Steam fills the bathroom. I press my palms to the tile and try to rinse off the bus, the arena, the silence, the look Ryan gave me through the dark window.
It does not work.
I keep seeing his hands.
Bruised knuckles. Curled fingers. The restraint after the damage was already done.
I keep seeing his throat, pulse still high, jaw set so hard it looked painful.
I keep hearing my own voice at the rink that morning.
Give me a reason to understand it before I do.
Excellent work, Peyton. Just a routine professional request from a woman who definitely did not spend the ride home watching a man through a bus window.
My hand slips lower before I can turn the thought into sense.
I stop.
For three seconds.
Then I stop pretending, because there is no one in this rented bathroom to perform for, and the lie is more tiring than the truth.
