Page 6 of The Off Limits Captain
“Good with O’Sullivan.”
“He listens.”
“To you.”
I shrug.
“Don’t do that,” Coach says.
“Do what?”
“Act like the C is just laundry.”
I look back at the ice. Finn is laughing with Volkov now, gloves on, crisis gone. Evan is leaning on his stick near the bench, talking to Kowalski with that loose grin that makes guys drift toward him even when they’re supposed to be listening elsewhere.
“Knowing what you are is how guys start believing their own billboards,” I say.
Sully gives me the look that means answer rejected.
I take the tunnel before Coach can grade me twice.
At the bend, I glance once more toward the lower bowl.
The reporter is still there, still writing.
Her posture is controlled, braced against the celebration around her. Her pen presses hard into the page, like whatever she saw in me has already become evidence.
Our eyes meet through the glass, and for a beat neither of us moves.
This woman looks like she wants the part I have not agreed to give.
I smile.
Not the broadcast smile or the captain’s polite, deflecting version. Not the easy thing fans can put on a poster and call charm.
This one is slower.
Private enough to be rude.
Sharp enough to count as contact.
It says: I know you are watching.
It says: I know what you want.
It says: I decide what you get.
Her pen stops.
Good.
I want the smile to land. Want her to feel the door close before she touches the handle.
Then I turn away.
Easy. Unhurried.
Like I have won before the first question is ever asked.
