Page 433 of Face Off

I press my lips together, but laughter escapes anyway.

Marco studies my face. “You staying?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You drove through snow.”

“That doesn’t answer every question.”

“It answers the expensive ones.”

The unexpected wisdom silences all three of us.

Marco points toward Briggs’s coffee. “You buying me one?”

“You have five dollars.”

“I need that for legal expenses.”

Briggs mutters something in Spanish before guiding Marco toward the coffee shop. He buys him a drink and a breakfast sandwich, listens patiently while Marco explains his ongoing conflict with the city, and asks whether he attended an appointment scheduled earlier in the week.

Marco rolls his eyes but answers.

Briggs doesn’t speak down to him or turn the exchange into charity. He listens, remembers details, and steers the conversation without allowing Marco to notice how carefully he is doing it.

The psych degree isn’t hidden beneath the jokes.

The jokes are how Briggs makes caring easier to receive.

When Marco leaves with his coffee and sandwich, he points at me. “Bring Decker outside before he gets mean again.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t do your best. Do it.”

Briggs watches him disappear toward the bus stop. “Marco’s motivational speeches lack nuance.”

“I think he likes Ryan.”

“He does. Ryan gives him coffee when it’s cold and pretends he only does it because Marco becomes louder when he’s hungry.”

“That sounds like Ryan.”

“It does.”

We return upstairs carrying another bag of food because Briggs considers the chicken a personal insult. By the time we reach Ryan’s apartment, the unfamiliar space no longer feels like somewhere I am trespassing.

Briggs gives me the complete tour without opening Ryan’s bedroom. He shows me the cabinet containing the good mezcal, the closet where Ryan stores hockey equipment despite having access to the arena, and the guest bathroom Briggs claims through ownership of one toothbrush and an alarming number of skin-care products.

We eat at the kitchen island while he describes Inferno games, Milwaukee summers, and the exact section inside the arena where I’ll receive the best view of Ryan without being close enough to hear the creative insults directed toward officials.

“You’re really selling this,” I tell him.

“I want you here.”

The immediate answer stills me.

Briggs wipes sauce from his thumb and sets down his food. “Ryan isn’t the only person who would benefit.”