Page 16 of The Off Limits Captain
Roman laughs. Maren does not look at him. He stops.
“They copy you,” she says, quieter now, only for me. “A captain who plays through a thing and never says so teaches the room that saying so is the weak move. Then someone who should speak up swallows it instead.”
I have no clean answer for that.
She has a way of making a bruise sound like a confession.
“Twenty minutes,” I say. “After the meeting.”
“Out loud,” she says, and stands.
“Out loud.”
Zach, wrist half-taped, says, “You are emotionally limping.”
I leave before the room gets proud of itself.
On my way up, Evan McKinney falls into step beside me with a coffee he absolutely has not gotten from the players’ lounge. “If this is about the reporter, ask whether she gets room access. Pretty woman with a notebook watches warmups, ends up near your hallway, and management texts like somebody found smoke in the vents. I am gifted at patterns.”
“Stay out of it.”
Evan peels off toward the executive wing, grinning. “Room does not love strangers with pens, Cap.”
He is right. That is the part that lands wrong.
By the time I reach the executive wing, I know the meeting is not a request.
Glass walls. Sponsor photos. Polished wood.
Silas sits behind his desk. Marc Nichols sits across from him, already still.
The room offers neither water nor small talk.
“Close the door,” Silas says.
“Peyton Hayes,” Silas says.
I look at the byline photo on the tablet.
The woman from the glass.
The hallway.
The pulse I watched jump when I got too close.
“I know who she is.”
Marc’s brow lifts. “Already?”
“She was where she wasn’t supposed to be.”
Silas slides the tablet back. “She requested expanded access. Profile piece. You, the team, leadership, routine.”
“What did you give her?”
“We haven’t confirmed anything without briefing you.”
I laugh once. “That is not what I asked.”
