7. Graham #3
Graham looked down at her hand.
Months ago, he would have checked the schedule. Asked what penalties were attached. Called Miller. Called legal. Found some compromise that kept every executive comfortable while Riley waited somewhere outside the room.
He pulled his arm free.
“Don’t touch me again, Nicolle. We are done.”
“What does that even mean?” She stepped after him. “Your wife files some dramatic paperwork and suddenly everyone else gets punished?”
Graham stopped.
He crushed the petition in his fist.
He turned just enough to look at her. “Do not talk about my wife.”
Nicolle started to answer, but Colin’s voice ripped across the set first.
“I am dialing the executives right this second! Leaving this room triggers an immediate breach of the sponsor agreement!”
Crew members had stopped pretending to work. Nobody touched the cameras now. Even the background extras stood scattered in the snow, watching him.
Graham glanced once more at the commercial set.
Fake ice. Fake winter. Fake partnership.
Riley’s real signature was crushed in his fist.
Colin pointed toward Graham’s abandoned mark. “Get back here before you cost us the entire shoot!”
Graham turned toward the blast doors.
“I don’t care who you dial. Tell them to burn the footage.”
Graham kept walking.
A production assistant rushed across his path before he reached the blast doors, both hands raised. “Graham, stop. Colin needs you back on set.”
“Move.”
“You can’t just walk out in the middle of a contracted shoot.”
Graham pushed past him without breaking stride. Another assistant intercepted him from the opposite side and pointed at the pads still strapped across his torso.
“You can’t leave dressed like that. Wardrobe has to sign off on the equipment.”
“Then wardrobe can bill me.”
Behind him, Colin was still shouting into the megaphone. Nicolle called his name once, but Graham never turned around.
The petition stayed crushed in his hand.
He shoved through the blast doors, yanking his skates off before he hit the pavement.
Atlanta sunlight flooded his vision after hours beneath studio lamps.
Heat rolled off the parking lot, and the weight of the pads pulled at his shoulders as he broke into a clumsy jog in just his socks.
Each awkward step reminded him how absurd he must look—an NHL captain lurching across asphalt in half a commercial uniform while divorce papers flapped against his thigh.
None of it mattered.
Riley had signed those pages.
That was the only fact left.
Four hours. Get to her.
His Aston Martin sat near the far edge of the lot.
Graham pulled the key fob from his pocket and hit the unlock button before he reached the car. The lights flashed. He yanked the driver’s door open and tossed the crumpled petition onto the passenger seat.
The mangled top page landed faceup.
“Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.”
He shoved it facedown.
Not now.
He stripped off the bulky shoulder pads, swapped his sweaty base layers for the clean shirt and trousers he’d kept in his trunk, and pulled on his street shoes, tossing the hockey gear into the back before shrugging on his jacket.
Graham climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.
The V8 came alive in front of him, a familiar sound that normally promised speed for its own sake.
Today it meant distance disappearing.
He backed out, shifted into drive, and pressed the accelerator.
The car shot across the lot.
There had always been one more obligation before Riley.
One more interview. One more sponsor dinner. One more appearance. One more contract somebody insisted could not wait until morning.
He had spent months teaching her exactly where she belonged on that list.
Now a court petition waited on the passenger seat because she was finally done waiting for him.
The exit barrier came into view ahead.
A security guard stepped out from the booth and raised both hands.
“Mr. Delaney, hit the brakes! I need production clearance before I can let you off the lot!”
Graham eased off the accelerator only enough to keep control as the striped arm filled the windshield.
“I am not stopping! Raise the gate right this second or my bumper is snapping that barrier in half!”
The guard stared at him, then spun toward the control panel.
“It’s going up, it’s going up!”
The striped arm began to rise.
Graham drove beneath it before it had even finished rising.
He left the studio behind him.
He merged onto the highway and aimed south.
The petition shifted across the passenger seat when the car hit the curve. At the next straight stretch, Graham reached over and grabbed the sliding pages, tossing them into the passenger footwell.
Riley had signed them because he had taught her not to expect him.
Tomorrow had always been good enough for him.
Tomorrow after the game. Tomorrow after the dinner. Tomorrow after the shoot.
He had run out of tomorrows.
Traffic cleared ahead, and Graham pressed the accelerator.
“Please just give me a chance, Riley. Keep the door open.”
The highway stretched south beyond the hood.
“I’m coming.”