10. Dante #2
Papà counts. The words spread through my chest the way a bruise spreads through muscle.
I start walking back.
The house is empty when I get there. Cole's at his constitutional law study group.
I drop my bag by the stairs and change upstairs, then bring my laptop down to the kitchen table.
The Blackhawks game loads on the screen, their defensive structure filling the frame.
Neutral zone trap, weak-side coverage sliding late.
If they're looking at me, I need to see how I fit.
The video rolls. I pause, rewind, and watch the weak-side forward drift half a stride too high. My jaw is still locked. I force it open, but it locks again within thirty seconds.
Papà counts.
Upstairs, in the desk drawer under the draft preparation folder, her recorder sits where I left it, small, black, untouched for five weeks.
On the screen, the Blackhawks reset into their trap again.
The front door opens.
I pause the video. Boots hit hardwood. Maya stands just inside with her laptop bag on one shoulder and her Chronicle badge hanging from her neck. She stops when she sees me.
Her recorder is one floor above her head, her voice and mine sitting in a drawer while she stands below it.
"Cole said I could use the printer," she says, still half outside with one hand on the frame. "He gave me a key."
"He's not here."
"I can see that." Her gaze flicks once across the room, taking in the kitchen table, my laptop, the paused game.
"The printer is in the office," I say. "Down the hall. Second door."
She nods and steps inside. The front door closes behind her. The latch clicks.
She walks past the table toward the hallway. I stay where I am, the screen paused and my attention following the sound of her boots down the hall.
A chair scrapes lightly. The printer hums to life. Paper feeds. Then a grinding noise cuts through the house, and the motor stalls.
"Your printer is dead," she calls from the office.
"It jams on the left tray."
A pause. "Is that something I can fix, or does it require a blood sacrifice?"
I close the laptop and walk down the hall.
She stands over the printer with one hand on the tray and the other holding a page. Chronicle layout. The final version of the Voss-Maddox profile. My name. Cole's name. Her work in black ink.
I reach past her. My arm crosses in front of her body, close enough for the warmth of her sleeve to register against my skin. Her hand lifts from the tray. I pull it open, clear the crumpled page, and slide the stack back into place. The printer clicks. The motor hums again.
"It sticks when the humidity changes," I say. "March."
"Thank you."
The office is barely wider than the desk, with the printer on a file cabinet and six inches between her sleeve and my chest. She stands between me and the exit. I stand between her and the printer. The pages begin feeding again, one after another, too loud in the narrow room.
"It'll take a few minutes," I say.
She doesn't move.
"Do you want tea?" I ask.
"What?"
"Tea. While you wait."
Her head tilts, and her eyes narrow slightly, the look she gives sources when the quote lands wrong. "Since when do you have tea?"
I walk to the kitchen. After a second, she follows.
She leans against the counter while I open the cabinet. Cole's tea boxes line the shelf. Behind them, pushed to the back where I put it three days ago, sits the green box. Barry's Irish Breakfast. I take it down and set it on the counter.
Maya looks at the box. Then at me.
"That's my brand," she says.
"It was on the shelf."
"Cole has never purchased Barry's Irish Breakfast in his life." She picks it up and turns the box over in her hands. "This is unopened."
I fill the kettle and set it on the burner. The ignition clicks. Blue flame catches.
"Dante."
"It's tea, Maddox."
"It's my specific tea in your kitchen where I've never had tea before."
"You're reading into a box of tea."
"I read into everything. It's my job."
The kettle begins to hiss. The kitchen stays dim, late afternoon light coming through the window while the overhead remains off. She leans against the counter with the Barry's box in her hands, and her pulse moves fast in the hollow of her throat.
"The profile," I say. "I read it."
"I know. Cole left it on the counter."
"Your analysis of the neutral zone structure is accurate. The timing gap you identified in the weak-side rotation. Addison hasn't caught it."
"I know he hasn't."
"You should send him the data."
"I should send the head coach unsolicited tactical analysis from the press box." Her voice flattens. "That would go over well."
"It would go over better than running it in the Chronicle where opposing coaches can read it."
She stops moving. The kettle whistles. Down the hall, the pages keep printing.
"You're telling me not to run my own story."
"I'm telling you the story has implications beyond the byline."
"And you care about that because it affects your draft stock."
"Yes."
"Your draft stock. Your team's competitive advantage. That's why you're standing in your kitchen giving me editorial feedback."
"Yes."
"And the tea."
The kettle screams between us.
I take it off the burner and pour the water into a mug. Steam curls up between us. I drop the tea bag in and set the mug on the counter.
"Drink your tea, Maddox."