Page 107 of Empty Net

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Nobody answers fast enough.

There is the answer.

When I leave Alderman's office, the hallway looks normal. People walk with coffee. Someone from ticketing laughs near the elevator. Dani comes out of the film room with a tablet, sees my face, and stops.

"What happened?"

I shake my head.

Her expression sharpens. "Caleb."

"I can't."

Two words. Not enough. All I have.

Her face changes from curiosity to understanding that the thing is serious and not hers to pull from me. "Okay."

I walk to my office. Close the door. Open my phone.

Nolan's name is there.

I do not call.

I type:

Please call me when you can.

I delete it.

I type:

Something is happening. I need you to hear it from me.

I delete it because if the message is seen later, if legal is right, if every word becomes part of the machinery, I could make it worse by trying to prevent the worst part.

Do not make your fear his assignment.

This is not fear. This is warning.

It is also fear.

I set the phone facedown on the desk and put both hands flat beside it. My body wants motion. My mind wants process. My heart, which has become embarrassingly literal lately, wants to get in my car and drive to the rink and find him before anyone else says his name in the wrong room.

Instead I wait for Alderman to do the correct thing.

The correct thing takes twenty-seven minutes.

At minute twenty-three, media relations forwards a second email. The outlet says they have received confirmation from a league source familiar with a recent personnel recusal. They do not provide the source. They do not provide the photograph. They ask again whether the Reapers deny that a member of management is in a personal relationship with a player.

At minute twenty-four, legal replies.

At minute twenty-five, Alderman texts me:

I'm going to him now.

At minute twenty-seven, my office phone rings.

Not Nolan.

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