Chapter 11 #2
“Diane’s right about a lot of things. Let’s not hand her a trophy for this one.”
I blew my nose into a paper towel. Priya turned on the adjacent faucet and washed her hands, giving me enough time to put my face back together. When she shut off the tap, she didn't try to hug me. She leaned her hips against the counter and looked at the closed stall door.
“Do you want me to drive you home?”
The offer came without edges. My spine stiffened anyway.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I have the New York timeline due at three.”
“Also fine.”
“And I don't want you telling Diane you found me crying in a restroom stall.”
Priya held up both hands.
“I’m not filing a report to Diane on your bodily functions. I’ve already met my quarterly quota for altruism.”
I let out another laugh, this time through my nose. Priya looked at me with a quiet sadness she didn't manage to hide in time, then looked down at the rice.
“I’ve been thinking about calling Cole,” I said before I could stop myself.
Priya didn't move.
“Because you want to talk to him, or because you want someone to tell you exactly what to do next?”
The question landed with a precision that left me stripped of any defense.
I looked down at my watch. The clasp was shut. I clicked it open and left it loose on my wrist.
“I don't know.”
“Then you don't have to call just yet.”
It was a simple answer. It gave me room for one full breath, nothing more.
Priya gathered the iced teas and grabbed the bag of rice.
“Let’s go sit in the service stairwell. Nobody important ever uses it because it smells like overheated laser printers and regret.”
“That’s not an HR-approved break space.”
“Which is why it works.”
I followed her without arguing. In the stairwell, the smell of stale toner cut through the restroom’s sharp antiseptic.
Priya sat on a step; I took the one above her, leaning my back against the cinderblock wall.
I managed four bites of rice while she talked about a vendor who’d submitted a pricing matrix with the tax columns omitted.
She didn't try to cheer me up. She gave me data to turn over in my head without any real stakes.
At two forty-eight, I went back to my office. At three sharp, I emailed the New York timeline. At four-ten, Diane replied: *Received. We’ll talk tomorrow.*
It didn't say *well done*. It stung in a way I couldn't rationally justify.
* * *
The Sentinels match kicked off at seven-thirty, and I put it on mute while reheating a frozen soup I didn't remember buying.
The kitchen was dark except for the range-hood light over the stove.
The basil plant on the windowsill had dropped two more leaves.
I picked them off the floor and tossed them into the trash with ridiculous precision.
Then I stood staring at the microwave turntable spinning, hypnotized by the red digital readout counting down from one minute and twelve seconds.
I didn't need to watch the match. That was the first thing I told myself. Cole wasn't an obligation, or a joint initiative, or a project deliverable I had to monitor. He was just the man who’d stayed sitting in my kitchen when I finally asked him not to leave. After the clinic check-up, I’d asked for space again, and he’d given it to me.
On the screen, the commentator’s mouth moved silently.
The broadcast camera tracked Cole as he jogged out of the tunnel.
He wore the blue-and-white Sentinels jersey, the number seven broad across his back.
A thick band of athletic tape wrapped his ribs beneath the fabric, bulky enough to distort the jersey’s hem when he raised his arms to acknowledge the crowd.
I unmuted the TV.
“—Callahan returns to the lineup after a bruising week,” the color commentator said. “Medical staff reinforced the padding around those fractured ribs, but he insisted on suiting up tonight.”
I stopped the microwave. The soup bubbled for a few more seconds before settling.
Cole took the pitch with a quiet focus I recognized even through a grainy broadcast feed.
He dipped his head when listening to the referee's calls, turning his water bottle between his palms during stoppages.
On the opening phase, he took the pass, found a tight gap, and accelerated.
A defender caught him hard from the side.
The hit was clean. But it landed somewhere deep in my chest that had no business aching.
My phone was sitting on the table. I opened my thread with Cole.
I typed: *Do they tape your ribs before every match?*
I deleted it.
I typed: *Saw you playing.*
I deleted that too.
On-screen, Cole got to his feet half a second slower than the other forwards. The referee blew a whistle. The camera panned wide toward the scoreboard. Fans in the stands had scarves, plastic cups of beer, and the kind of loud, careless cheer that felt like it belonged in a foreign country.
I carried the bowl of soup into the living room. The first spoonful was scalding; it burned my tongue. I kept eating without waiting for it to cool.
By the end of the first half, the announcer noted that Cole had set up the Sentinels’ only try. My phone didn't buzz. There was no reason it should.
I opened my laptop and reviewed the New York timeline for the fourth time. I moved a milestone date from Tuesday to Wednesday. Changed it back to Tuesday. Closed the document without saving.
On the screen, the second half kicked off. Cole stood with one hand pressed against his ribs, waiting for the restart. He leaned in to say something to Marcus. I couldn't hear the words over the roar of the crowd.
I opened the thread again.
Me: *Saw you play. Can you come over tomorrow?*
I sent it before I could tack on a rationalization. I set the phone face up on the table and let the match play on.