Page 86 of Broken Formation
Richard filed the parole violation report yesterday before we left his office. The protection order covers Maya, Suzanne, and the household. I twist another bite of pasta around my fork and swallow the thought with it.
"The Eastbrook series piece," she says. "I'm restructuring the post-mortem angle."
"From what to what?"
"From defensive matchups to coaching philosophy. Addison's mid-series adjustments weren't tactical. They were philosophical. He rebuilt the system around adaptability between games two and three."
"That's a bigger piece."
"It's a better piece."
"You'd need locker room access for the post-game quotes."
"I know."
"Dante could get you in."
Her eyes narrow over the rim of her bowl.
"Or I could get myself in," she says. "Through the press office. Like a journalist."
"Like a journalist who happens to live in Dante's house."
"Stepbrother's house. You live here. I'm a guest."
"You've been here for a week, Maya. Guests don't have their own mug."
"Guests leave."
"Do they?"
The sentence sits between us. She goes back to the pasta, her shoulder still against my arm.Leaveis the word she gave me.Stayis the one still sitting in her throat.
I wash the dishes while she dries beside me, the towel hooked over her shoulder as she stacks the bowls in the cabinet she has memorized in seven days. Steam clouds the window above the sink until the glass blurs and the kitchen pulls in close around us.
Her hand brushes mine in the dish rack.
She leaves it there for one extra second. So do I.
"Cole."
"Yeah."
"Thank you. For this." Her hand lifts, then falls against her thigh before the gesture can carry everything she means.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know I don't have to. I'm choosing to."
She looks straight at me, direct enough that my hand stills on the cabinet door. Usually, Maya looks at the room before she looks at me. Tonight, she stays on my face long enough for my grip to tighten on the cabinet door.
I put the last bowl in the cabinet and turn to face her. She is backed against the counter, the towel over her shoulder, my sweatshirt on her body, her bare feet on the kitchen floor.
"Maya."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
