“Peyton. You’ll be observing from the upper level today. We’re restricting rinkside access for the time being.”
“Why?”
“Logistics.”
“That word is doing a lot.”
Her smile tightens. “We’re managing traffic flow more carefully.”
On my way to the stairs, Samantha Cole catches me near the media elevator with her camera bag over one shoulder.
“Nice piece,” she says quietly.
“That sounded like a trap.”
“It is not. I like pictures that make people look good. Does not mean I like pretending ugly things did not happen.”
“Jennifer know you are saying that?”
“Jennifer knows I am a chronic liability.”
I nearly laugh.
Samantha nods toward the rink. “Upper level still has decent angles.”
“For photos?”
“For people who do not want you to see them looking.”
Then she walks away before anyone can catch her being kind.
I climb the stairs.
Below, the Stampede move through drills with brutal precision. Ryan skates like nothing changed. Evan moves two strides off his shoulder, not exactly challenging, not exactly following. Finn is absent. Zach looks mean enough to bite through his mouthguard.
Ryan does not look up.
That should help. It does not.
The upper level is colder than rinkside. More honest, maybe. Nobody bothers pretending I am part of the room from up here.
Marc stands ten feet away with his phone in his hand, pretending to answer email while making sure I do not grow wings and descend toward the bench. Jennifer is nowhere in sight. Probably strategic. Or she has better things to do than watch me experience consequences in real time.
I take notes because spite is still a valid fuel source.
Drill: defensive-zone retrieval.
Kowalski rims the puck. Evan cuts behind the net instead of reversing through the prescribed lane. Ryan stops him with one sharp whistle.
Evan coasts back, expression loose.
Ryan says something I cannot hear.
Evan answers with both arms spread, stick in one hand, the universal hockey gesture for what, me?
The guys along the boards watch without watching.
That is the room now: not broken, watching.