Page 203 of The Off Limits Captain
Tip.
Red light.
The building comes apart.
I do not cheer. I am working.
My hands shake anyway.
After the game, Gil calls while I am walking through the concourse, crowd noise surging around me.
“Tell me you have something better than captain scores gritty winner,” he says.
“I have Ryan McAllister learning that control can be selfish.”
“That sounds like a sentence you love too much.”
“I will hurt it in edits.”
“Good. What about the bigger piece?”
I stop near a concrete pillar where the signal is less terrible and the air smells like popcorn, beer, and cold rink exhaust.
“I have a former player who agreed to go on record. Not Stampede. He will talk if I keep the frame on culture, not confession.”
“Can you?”
The question is not insulting. That is why it lands.
I look toward the hallway that leads down to the locker room. Somewhere below me, Ryan is probably standing in front of cameras with bruised ribs and a calm face, giving the city a version of pain it can applaud.
“I can,” I say.
“And McAllister?”
“Is not my source.”
Gil is quiet.
“That sounded rehearsed,” he says.
“Most true things do when they cost something.”
“Good line. Do not use it.”
I almost smile. “Noted.”
He softens without sounding soft. “Choose what not to use, Hayes. That is where the story gets a spine.”
After he hangs up, I open my notebook again.
I draw two columns.
What belongs to the room.
What belongs to the truth.
Then I stare at the blank space between them, where love has made everything harder and, inconveniently, more honest.
