CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NORA
Day Nine
The Breakers' photographer has the flu.
Tessa calls at noon with the careful voice of someone approaching a wild animal.
"The league requires an approved shooter in the home photo position," she says. "You are approved. You are also allowed to say no."
"Is this a foundation obligation?"
"No. Paid contract. Standard rate plus rush delivery."
"Did Rhett ask?"
"He specifically told me not to ask you on his behalf. Elena asked because your work is better than our backup's."
Professional pride is a dangerous form of consent.
At six, I am in the arena photo bay wearing black, credential visible, lenses cleaned twice.
Rhett sees me during warmups.
His stride falters for less than a second.
Then he continues.
I photograph him anyway.
Through a long lens, intimacy becomes geometry. The angle of his shoulders. The spray of ice beneath his blades. The line from his stick to the puck. I can separate the athlete from the husband by changing aperture.
For two periods, it works.
In the third, a defenseman drives Rhett into the boards. His right glove comes off. He rises holding his wrist close to his body.
The camera catches everything.
Pain tightening his mouth. The trainer reaching him. Rhett shaking his head before anyone asks whether he can continue.
He plays the next shift.
Of course he does.
The Breakers win in overtime. Lucas makes a save that should be impossible. Rhett assists the winning goal one-handed.
After the horn, the photo bay floods with movement. A man in a Breakers jersey leans over the barrier.
"Nora!"
I turn before remembering not to.
He raises his phone. "Smile for the distraction cam."
Security moves toward him.
I lift my own camera and photograph his face.
His smile disappears.
"What are you doing?"
"Documenting harassment. The image will be provided to arena security."
"It was a joke."
"Then you should improve your material."
The officers escort him out.
Adrian Cole, a freelance journalist I worked with in college, watches from the neighboring position. He gives me a slow clap.
"Still terrifying," he says.
"Still underdressed."
He looks down at his wrinkled shirt. "Occupational hazard. I heard about the Nordic job. Ingrid called for a reference."
"You said something flattering?"
"I lied professionally. Congratulations."
He hugs me.
Over his shoulder, I see Rhett exiting the ice.
His eyes land on Adrian's arms around me.
His face changes, then stills.
He looks away.
The absence of jealousy performed for my benefit should not feel more intimate than jealousy itself.
After the locker room clears, I am packing when Tessa appears.
"Rhett asked permission to speak with you for five minutes about foundation licensing. He will accept no."
"Five minutes. Here."
He arrives with his wrist wrapped and his hair still wet from the shower.
"You should have that scanned," I say before he speaks.
"It is. Sprain. No fracture."
"You played on it."
"Yes."
"Idiot."
Something warm flashes in his eyes. "You used to say that with more affection."
"Your five minutes are decreasing."
He nods and hands me a document. "The team and foundation have used thirty-seven of your photographs in paid campaigns over the last eighteen months. Some were licensed through our marital release instead of your business. Legal calculated standard commercial fees and retroactive credit."
I scan the amount.
"This is excessive."
"It is the rate they paid other photographers."
"Did you arrange this?"
"I asked them to audit it. Elena approved payment. You can dispute the calculation through Maren."
"I don't want money disguised as repentance."
"Neither do I. This is money disguised as money. They used your work. You get paid."
His answer irritates me because it is correct.
He checks the clock on the wall. "One more thing. Maren sent the preliminary divorce petition."
My lungs forget their job.
"Already?"
"You asked for it."
"I know what I asked."
He studies my face but does not rescue me from my own contradiction.
"I will sign," he says.
The arena seems suddenly too large and too quiet.
I wanted him to fight the habits that damaged us. I did not want him to fight my decision.
Those are not the same thing.
Knowing that does not make the words hurt less.
"Thank you," I say.
His jaw tightens.
"Nora, signing does not mean I want this."
"Your five minutes are over."
He nods once.
At the doorway, he pauses. "Adrian looks the same."
There it is. A human crack.
"Were you jealous?"
He looks back at me. "Yes."
"You hid it."
"You are not mine to police."
The sentence lands somewhere dangerous.
He leaves.
I sit alone beside the rink with a check for my invisible labor and the promise of a signature I thought I wanted.
For the first time, freedom feels less like a door opening than a room losing one of its walls.