Page 7 of The Off Limits Captain
I make it three steps before wanting to look back annoys me enough to keep walking.
Peyton
The smile hits like a flare under the skin.
The friendly jumbotron grin is gone. This one is aimed straight at me.
Deliberate. The kind men like him use when they know someone is watching and want to establish territory without saying a word.
I know you’re watching.
I decide what you get.
My pen digs into the page hard enough to leave a mark.
Around me, Frost Bank Center is losing its mind over the shutout, but all I can see is Ryan McAllister turning away like he has already won an argument I have not started yet.
Fine.
I like starting arguments.
I write: Captains room before game. Rookie fuse. McKinney wildcard. McAllister notices everything and hates being noticed back.
Then, because apparently I have lost the professional high ground before introductions, I add: Smile should come with a warning label.
I stare at that sentence.
Terrible note. Accurate note.
The safe story is easy. McAllister goal and assist. Volkov perfect in net. Stampede disciplined in rivalry shutout. Evan McKinney with the reckless pass everyone will call instinct because it worked.
Accurate, dead on arrival.
The real story is walking into the tunnel with a bruise he refused to favor and a smile he used like a locked door.
So I go after it.
The corridors behind the lower bowl are quieter, all concrete, fluorescent light, and the fading rumble of celebration. I am not cleared for the locker room area yet.
I round the corner near equipment storage just as the double doors swing open.
Cold air spills out.
Then Ryan.
Base layers. Damp hair. Skates slung over one shoulder. The captain without the jersey, without the cameras, without the city chanting his name.
The bruise is already rising along his shin where he blocked the shot. He keeps his weight even anyway. Barely. Half an inch of stubbornness pretending to be balance.
I write bruise favoring? in the margin.
Then I cross out the question mark.
He does not see me. He leans against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, chest moving like he has been holding himself together by force and only just remembered he has lungs.
It is too private, and I should step back.
I don’t.
