Page 79 of Playing it Safe

"It's not weird. He takes care of people. That's who he is."

"He didn't even show up tonight," Joey shrugs. "If he cared, he'd be here."

"You don't know—" My voice comes out louder than I intend. The players nearest us glance over. I don't care. "You don't know anything about why he wasn't here. You don't know what he's dealing with."

"So tell us," Ducky says.

"He fixed my smoke detector at midnight because he couldn't sleep knowing it wasn't working." I'm standing now. The tape ball is crushed in my fist, my voice is shaking, and I can't stop. "He memorized my sister’s routine and her favorite foods. He bought her face gems because he thought she’d like them. And he’s so nice to his cat. So nice.”

The locker room has grown quieter around us. The worm has stopped. Someone turned the music down. My eyes burn. Every woman in this room watches me, and I don't care.

"He is the gentlest, most thoughtful person I have ever met, and I told him shitty things about his family. He left because I sounded exactly like the woman who broke him. I don't know how to fix it. He wasn't in the stands tonight, and I don't —"

My voice cracks. I sit down hard on the bench.

"I love him," I say to the floor. "I love him so much, but I don't know where he is."

The locker room is silent except for the drip of champagne from the ceiling and the hum of the overhead lights.

Ducky looks at Tate. Tate looks at Joey. Joey looks at Carrie.

"Okay," Joey says quietly. “So you’re definitely not in the market for Busy Beaver.”

I press my hands over my face. Someone rests a hand on my shoulder. I think it's Tate. She squeezes once, says nothing, and I sit there, breathing into my palms, feeling the full weight of what I just said out loud to my whole social network.

I love him. I love him, and I am stuck in a holding pattern, orbiting my sister’s group home, where even she told me to get a life. I told Cameron that his devotion to his family was pathological.

I'm an idiot.

The locker room door opens.

I don't look up, but the room stills. The energy shifts. Ducky says "oh" in a voice that makes me lift my head.

Deen is standing in the doorway.

She's in her face gems and wonky braids. Her gaze finds me, and her face breaks into a grin.

"You won!" She runs toward me, slipping on the champagne puddles. I catch her, pull her close, press my face into her hair, and breathe her in. She smells like nachos, lemonade, and the strawberry shampoo the group home stocks.

“How did you get here?"

"You played so good," she says into my shoulder. "I watched the whole game. I saw you block that one big shot."

My voice is muffled against her braids. "DD, how were you⁠—"

"Cameron brought me."

I look up.

He's standing in the doorway, shoulders nearly touching both sides, head ducked slightly, body angled like he's not sure he has permission to enter. He's in jeans and an Uprising hoodie, with face gems that match Deen's, and he looks exhausted, uncertain, and completely, devastatingly gorgeous.

The locker room watches. Every woman on the Pittsburgh Uprising is watching. Ducky has her hand over her mouth, and Tate grips Joey's arm. "You were here," I say.

“’Course I was here." His voice is low and steady. "We watched from a booth upstairs. It was quieter for DD."

I look at Deen, who is still attached to my neck. She leans back and inspects my face. "You're sweaty."

"I just played a hockey game."