27 two hours north
Jess treats road trips like a personality trait.
That becomes clear ten minutes after we leave Phoenix, when she declares this "a core memory in the making" and hands Riley control of the playlist like she's assigning roles in a heist.
"It's two hours," I say, settling back into the seat.
"Exactly," Jess replies. "Long enough for character development."
Riley glances at me in the rearview mirror, her expression calm, almost amused. "You're already developing."
"I'm not."
"You are," Jess says. "You drove two hours to watch hockey."
"I drove two hours to maintain a very specific illusion."
"That sounds romantic."
"It's not."
Jess twists in her seat just enough to look at me. "You're wearing his jersey again."
"I was told to."
"You kept it."
"That's not the same thing."
"It is," she says, like this is obvious.
Riley pulls onto the highway, the city thinning out behind us, desert stretching wide and quiet on either side. The sun is still high, but it's already starting to soften, the light turning warmer as we head north.
"You're quiet," Riley says after a moment.
"I'm conserving energy."
"For what?"
"For the next two hours of you both analyzing me."
Jess gasps. "We don't analyze you."
"You do."
"We observe," she corrects.
"That's worse."
Jess grins, turning back around in her seat. "So what's the plan tonight?"
"There is no plan."
"There's always a plan."
"The plan is to sit in the stands and not freeze."
"It's October in Arizona," Jess says. "You'll survive."
"That's not reassuring."
Riley adjusts the volume slightly, music filling the space between conversations. "You'll be fine."
"That's the second time someone's said that today," I mutter.
Jess doesn't let it drop. "You're excited."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are," she repeats, like repetition will make it true.
I look out the window instead of answering, watching the landscape shift slowly from flat to something with more shape, the road winding just enough to make it feel like we're going somewhere different.
I don't think about him, not deliberately.
Which means I do anyway.
?
By the time we get to Flagstaff, the air feels different.
Jess notices immediately, pulling her sleeves down. "Okay, I regret not bringing another jacket."
"You brought three bags," I say.
"None of them are practical."
"That tracks."
Riley parks near the rink, the lot already filling up with people heading in, the energy building in that quiet, anticipatory way.
"Six o'clock," Jess says, checking her phone. "Perfect timing."
"I hate that you're organized."
"I'm efficient."
"You're insufferable."
Riley turns off the engine, glancing at both of us. "Ready?"
"No," I say.
"Yes," Jess says at the same time.
We get out anyway.
?
The rink is louder than I expected.
Not overwhelming, but sharper, the sound bouncing off everything, voices echoing, skates cutting against ice somewhere beyond the walls.
Jess is immediately invested.
"I love this," she says, looking around like she's already decided this is her thing now.
"You say that about everything," I reply.
"Not like this."
Riley stays close to her, one hand brushing lightly against Jess's arm like it's automatic, grounding. "It's good energy."
"It's aggressive ice ballet," I say.
Jess snorts. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm accurate."
We find seats a few rows up from the glass, close enough to see everything clearly without being in the direct chaos of it. The ice is already marked, players warming up, the sound of pucks hitting boards sharp and repetitive.
I spot him before I mean to.
He's on the ice, moving like this is the only place he's supposed to be, fast and controlled in a way that makes everything else look slower by comparison.
Jess follows my line of sight immediately.
"Oh," she says quietly. "That's-"
"Don't," I cut in.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were."
"I was going to say he's good."
"That's allowed."
Riley leans forward slightly, watching the movement on the ice. "He is."
I don't respond. Because... he is.
The game starts at six, sharp and loud and immediate, the first whistle cutting through everything else. The energy shifts instantly, the crowd leaning in, the pace picking up in a way that makes it hard to look away.
Jess is into it within minutes.
"Okay, wait, I get it now," she says. "This is actually good."
"You switched sides fast."
"I'm adaptable."
Riley smiles slightly, her attention still on the ice. "You just like the chaos."
"I do like the chaos."
I track the play without meaning to, following where he moves, where the puck goes, how everything seems to revolve around a rhythm I don't fully understand but can still feel.
He scores midway through the second period.
Jess grabs my arm immediately. "That's him, right?"
"I'm aware."
"That was good."
"That's his job."
"That was still good."
I don't argue with that. Because-
it was.
The rest of the game moves fast after that, momentum building, shifting, the crowd reacting in waves. By the third period, it's louder, sharper, the kind of energy that pulls you into it whether you want to be there or not.
We win.
Jess is fully invested now, clapping like she's been doing this her whole life. Riley just smiles, quieter, but just as present.
I stay seated for a second longer than necessary, watching the players clear the ice, the noise slowly settling into something less intense.
"That wasn't terrible," I admit.
Jess turns to me slowly. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said about hockey."
"Don't get used to it."
"I'm absolutely getting used to it."
Riley stands, brushing her hand lightly against Jess's as they start toward the exit. "Come on."
I follow, but my attention lingers for half a second longer than it should.
Because even now-
even after everything-
I'm still watching him.