Page 155 of The Off Limits Captain
“I miss when your hypotheticals were about whether texting a man back made you weak.”
“That was one time.”
“That was February.”
A breath. “Goodbye, Sierra.”
“Wait.” Her voice softens. “Are you okay?”
I look at my notebook on the passenger seat. At the sentence I have underlined twice and still cannot use.
“No,” I say. “But I think I finally asked myself the question instead of asking you to.”
The line ends.
I sit in the car for another minute, phone still in my hand.
I do not have a name I can use.
I do not have a fact I can print.
I have a pattern.
I have a door.
And I have enough to know that opening it carelessly could hurt the exact person the story is supposed to protect.
The Stampede play that night like a team trying to outrun the calendar.
Not playoffs yet.
Close enough that every hit sounds rehearsed for them.
Frost Bank Center is loud, anxious, hungry. The city has learned just enough hockey to become unbearable about it. Every clearing attempt gets a noise. Every blocked shot becomes proof of character. Every close-up of Ryan on the jumbotronturns the building into something worshipful and demanding at once.
I stand above the press section and watch the bench.
Not the puck.
Finn dresses.
That should settle something. It does not.
He plays six shifts through the first period. Two in the second. None in the last eight minutes.
A coach could explain that away. Matchups. Score. Trust. Rookie management.
Maren appears behind the bench midway through the second and speaks to Ryan with one hand braced on the boards.
Ryan does not look at Finn.
That is how I know Finn is part of the conversation.
My stomach tightens.
Ryan’s face gives nothing away.
No panic. No tells. Just that locked captain stillness that can make silence look like leadership if you do not know what it costs.
