Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The condiment bottles were Edie’s first real experiment in breaking through Tarmek’s control.
The team break room had a small kitchenette, and the condiment shelf was organized with the kind of rigid precision that could only be Tarmek's work.
Ketchup, mustard, mayo, relish, hot sauce—arranged by height and grouped by frequency of use, labels facing forward in perfect alignment.
She waited until she was sure he'd left for the day, then spent a pleasant fifteen minutes rearranging everything.
Ketchup went to the back. Relish moved to the front.
She turned the hot sauce backwards and tilted the mustard at a jaunty angle.
Then she added a bottle of sriracha that she'd brought from her camper, wedged between the mayo and a jar of pickles that absolutely had not been there before.
The next morning, she positioned herself at a table with a clear sightline to the kitchenette and pretended to sketch while she waited.
He arrived at his usual time, seven-fifteen exactly, moving automatically to the coffee maker. Then he opened the condiment shelf.
He froze.
His back was to her, but she could see the exact moment his shoulders tensed. He stood there for a long, silent moment, staring at the chaos before him. Then, very slowly, very deliberately, he turned to look at her.
She smiled and waved, then went back to her sketch. When she glanced up again, he was reorganizing the bottles. His movements were precise and unhurried, but there was a rigidity to them that hadn't been there before. Like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.
Delightful.
The phone wallpaper required more planning.
She'd noticed that he left his phone on the bench during practice, screen-down, presumably to avoid distractions. The team had a rule about phones in the locker room, something about privacy and leaked photos, but the bench area was technically public space.
"Hey Fen," she said casually one afternoon, "what's Tarmek's phone passcode?"
"1-2-3-4," Fen answered without hesitation. "He hasn't changed it since he got the phone. We've all tried to tell him it's a security risk, but he says anyone stupid enough to mess with his stuff deserves what they get."
"What does that mean?"
"No idea. Probably something terrifying." Fen grinned. "Why? What are you planning?"
"Nothing."
"Liar. Can I watch?"
"Absolutely not."
She waited until halfway through practice, when he was fully absorbed in running drills, to slip into the bench area. His phone was exactly where she expected it to be. She typed in the code, navigated to his wallpaper settings, and paused.
The current wallpaper was a photo of the Enforcers logo. Safe. Boring. Predictable.
She considered her options. Something ridiculous? A photo of herself making a face? A glitter explosion? A motivational poster with a kitten?
No.
She scrolled through her camera roll until she found a sketch she'd done the previous week, late at night when she couldn't sleep.
A rough pencil drawing of a figure on ice, caught mid-motion, powerful and graceful and unmistakably him.
She'd meant to throw it away because it was too personal, too revealing of how much attention she'd been paying to him, but something had stopped her.
She set it as his wallpaper and slipped away before anyone noticed.
He didn't react immediately. She spent the rest of the day in a state of low-grade anxiety, half-expecting him to storm into her workspace and demand an explanation.
Instead, nothing happened. Practice ended and the team dispersed.
She worked on preliminary sketches for the mural until her eyes burned and her hand cramped.
At eight-thirty, she finally packed up and headed for the parking lot. Her camper was waiting in its usual spot, tucked behind the arena like a colorful afterthought. She was halfway across the asphalt when she heard footsteps behind her. Heavy footsteps.
She turned to find Tarmek walking towards her, still in his practice clothes, phone in hand.
"You changed my wallpaper," he said.
She considered denying it, then decided there was no point. "I did."
"To a drawing. Of me."
"Technically it's a drawing of a hockey player. Could be anyone."
His eyes bored into hers. "It's me."
She swallowed. "Yes. It's you."
He looked down at the phone, then back up at her. In the dim glow of the parking lot lights, his face was impossible to read. "Why?"
Because I couldn't stop thinking about the way you move on the ice. Because you're the most fascinating person I've met in years and I don't know what to do with that. Because I'm supposed to be temporary and you feel like something permanent and that scares the hell out of me.
"Seemed funny at the time," she said weakly.
He studied her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned and walked towards her camper. She scrambled to catch up, her shorter legs working double-time to match his stride.
"Where are you going?"
"Your lights are out."
She blinked. "What?"
"The exterior lights on your camper. The ones by the door. They've been out for three days." He reached the camper before she did and knelt down beside the electrical panel, pulling a multitool from somewhere on his person. "The connection is loose. I noticed it on Tuesday."
"You—wait. You've been checking my camper?"
"Someone should." He didn't look up. "It's not safe. This parking lot isn't monitored after midnight."
"I have locks. And pepper spray. And a very aggressive attitude."
"You have a door that a strong wind could knock down and a habit of staying up until three AM with your headphones on." He made an adjustment, and the exterior light flickered to life. "You wouldn't hear someone coming."
She stared at the top of his head, at the long dark hair pulled back from his face, at the focused furrow of his brow as he checked the connection one more time.
"Have you been watching me?" she asked quietly.
He stood, tucking the multitool away. "I notice things."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." He met her eyes, and there was something vulnerable in his expression, something that didn't match the imposing bulk of him. "You work late. You forget to eat. You leave doors unlocked. Someone should—" He stopped, and his jaw tightened. "Someone should notice."
Her heart skipped a beat. "Tarmek—"
"The drawing is good," he said abruptly. "I'm keeping it."
Before she could respond, he turned and walked back towards the arena, leaving her standing in the glow of her newly functional lights with her pulse racing and her carefully constructed defenses starting to crack.
After that, she couldn't stop noticing as well. She noticed the way food appeared on her workspace when she'd been working too long without a break. Never with a note. Just there, like magic, exactly when her stomach started rumbling.
She noticed the way he materialized beside her whenever she left the arena after dark, walking her to her camper without asking permission or explaining himself. They didn't talk during these walks, but his presence was a warm weight at her side, solid and reassuring.
She noticed the way small things around the arena kept getting fixed before she even had a chance to report them.
The loose step on the scaffolding she used for the mural.
The flickering light in the hallway outside the storage room.
The draft under the door of the break room where she often worked late.
She'd asked Sam about them once.
"Maintenance has been really on top of things lately," she said, trying to sound casual. "Did you guys hire someone new?"
Sam had given her a knowing look. "Nope. Same crew as always. Why do you ask?"
"No reason."
"Uh-huh." Sam's smile had been infuriating. "No reason at all."
The assigned seat incident happened during a team video session.
She hadn't meant to cause trouble—okay, she had absolutely meant to cause trouble, but in a fun way, not a disruptive way.
The video room had theater-style seating, and she'd noticed that the players always sat in the exact same spots.
Fen in the back left corner. Brogan in the front row, alone, with the other older players behind him.
Rognar in the middle, surrounded by the younger players who looked up to him.
And Tarmek in the back right corner. Alone. With an empty seat on either side that no one ever, ever occupied.
She got there early and claimed his seat.
The players trickled in slowly, chatting and joking, settling into their usual spots.
She watched their faces as they noticed her, watched the ripple of surprise and amusement spread through the room.
Fen caught her eye and mouthed oh my god with obvious delight.
Then Tarmek walked in and stopped in the doorway. His gaze swept the room, found her, and narrowed.
She smiled sweetly. "Good morning."
"You're in my seat."
"I don't see your name on it."
"Everyone knows it's my seat."
"That seems like an assumption. Have you asked the seat how it feels about this arrangement? Maybe it's ready for a change. Maybe it's been waiting its whole seat-life for someone new to sit on it."
Fen made a choking sound.
Tarmek's jaw tightened. He stood there for a long moment, clearly wrestling with himself, and she braced for the explosion. The demand that she move. The cold dismissal she probably deserved. Instead, he walked to the seat beside her and sat down.
The room went dead silent.
"This is acceptable," he said, staring straight ahead at the blank screen. "We can share."
She blinked. "We can?"
"Unless you'd prefer I carry you to another seat myself."
The mental image that produced was not appropriate for a professional setting. She shifted in her stolen seat, suddenly very aware of how close he was, his shoulder nearly brushing hers. She could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Sharing is good," she managed. "Sharing is fine."
"Good."
The video session started. She didn't retain a single second of it.
That night, walking back to her camper in the circle of his silent presence, she finally asked the question that had been building all week.
"Why do you let me get away with it?"
"Get away with what?"
"The condiments. The phone wallpaper. The seat. Any of it." She stopped walking, forcing him to stop too, to turn and face her in the dim light. "I've been deliberately messing with your stuff. Your routine. Your whole... thing. Anyone else would have told me to stop. Why haven't you?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Around them, the parking lot was silent except for the distant hum of the arena's climate control systems and the chirp of early autumn crickets.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I should mind. I do mind. But—" He broke off, shaking his head. "When you move things, I have to think about them differently. I have to notice them again instead of just... going through the motions." His eyes found hers. "You make me notice things."
Her breath caught.
"That was almost poetic," she whispered. "Who knew you had it in you?"
"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me." She took a step closer, close enough to touch if she wanted to. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. "For what it's worth, you make me notice things too."
His hand rose, hovered near her face for a heartbeat, then dropped back to his side. "You should go inside. It's getting cold."
"Right." She stepped back, the moment breaking like a soap bubble. "Cold. Yes."
"I'll wait until you're in."
"You always do."
She walked to her camper on legs that felt unsteady, unlocked the door, and turned to look at him one last time. He stood where she'd left him, a massive silhouette in the darkness, watching her with an intensity she could feel even from thirty feet away.
She raised her hand in a small wave. He nodded once.
Then she went inside and leaned against the closed door, heart hammering, knowing with absolute certainty that she was in way over her head.