Chapter 20
Samantha
The city hit different this morning.
I got to the facility early because early meant control. Early meant empty hallways, clear sight lines, and the small mercy of entering a room before anyone had decided which version of you they were going to look for.
The rink was already awake. Not loud yet, but moving toward it.
A skate sharpener whined somewhere behind the equipment room.
Someone laughed in the locker room, the sound low and brief.
The building carried the usual pre-practice atmosphere: caffeine, damp gear, and men pretending their bodies did not hurt.
I set my camera bag near the boards and began assembling myself piece by piece.
Lens. Strap. Battery. Breath.
Professional face.
That last one took the longest.
Across the ice, Ryan was talking to Finn near the boards, his posture relaxed but his attention exact.
Captain energy. Quiet correction. Finn listened with his whole body, chin lifted, body taut, like every note was both instruction and challenge.
A week ago, I might have shot it. This morning, I let the moment pass.
I am choosing my frames carefully now.
Maybe too carefully.
Brick found me before practice started.
I sensed he was approaching before he spoke. Men like Zach Novak didn’t sneak up; they brought their presence with them. He stopped beside me at the boards, one hand wrapped around a coffee, hair still damp from the shower, expression stripped of its usual grin.
That was how I knew this was not going to be small talk.
“Morning, Cole.”
“Brick.”
He looked out at the ice instead of at me. For a moment, neither of us said anything. The rink hummed. A puck hit the boards at the far end. Somewhere behind us, a trainer called for someone to stop being stupid, which narrowed the suspect pool only slightly.
“He went looking for you,” Brick said.
My fingers tightened around the camera body.
I did not look at him. “Who?”
Brick gave me the look without turning his head. Somehow, it still landed.
“Yesterday. After practice. He came back. You were gone.”
Something in my stomach tightened, which was extremely unwelcome and rejected on principle.
“I had work to do,” I said.
“Yeah.”
He let the word sit between us. Not judgment. Not agreement. Just a place to stand.
“And before you decide, I’m here to plead his case,” Brick said, “I’m not.”
I looked at him then.
He was still watching the ice.
“Good,” I said. “Because I don’t want a defense attorney.”
“Wouldn’t offer you one. He doesn’t deserve one.”
The bluntness of it took some of the air out of my argument before I could make it.
Brick turned the coffee cup once in his hand.
“He snapped at you. In front of the room. He took something private and made it public in the ugliest possible way. You were right to leave. You were right to pull back. I told him that. Sully told him his own version. Nobody in that room thought you were the problem.”
I swallowed.
“Okay,” I said, because it was the only word I trusted.
Brick nodded once.
“I am going to tell you something else,” he said. “It does not make him right or make what he did smaller. I’m telling you because you deserve the whole picture, and because the whole picture is the only one you ever seem interested in taking.”
That landed closer than I wanted it to.
I looked down at my camera.
“He had a contract call,” Brick said. “Seattle. Big number. Big enough to move the room before the room knew it was moving. He found out in the middle of practice. Came back looking like someone had pulled the ground sideways.”
“How big?” I asked.
“Ninety million, give or take enough money to make the rest of us bitter.”
The number landed with a clean, cold weight.
“That doesn’t excuse it,” I said.
“No.” Brick’s answer came immediately. “It explains the room he was standing in when he did it. That’s all.”
I breathed through the tightness in my chest.
The camera strap pressed into my palm.
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because he went looking for the person who sees him.” Brick’s voice softened, not gentle exactly, but careful. “And she was gone. And I think that scared him more than the thing that cracked him open in the first place.”
The words settled into me, heavy and sinking.
I looked out at the ice. Players were beginning to drift on for warm-ups. Ryan first, controlled as ever. Finn behind him, all restless motion. Mack and Colt talking near the bench. The room assembled itself around routine, as if routine could hold anything if you gave it enough repetition.
“I wasn’t wrong to leave,” I said.
“No,” Brick said. “You weren’t.”
He let that sit.
Then, softer:
“But you were not the only one hurt.”
Brick pushed off the boards.
“That’s all I came to say.”
“Does he know you’re saying it?”
“No.”
“Would he like it?”
“Absolutely not.”
That almost pulled a laugh out of me. Almost.
“Then why?”
Brick looked back at me, and for once there was no joke in him at all.
“I’m tired of watching two strong people bleed quietly in separate corners like that is a personality trait.”
He skated away before I could answer.
I stood at the boards with my camera in my hands and let the cold air press against my face.
Across the ice, Evan stepped out from the tunnel.
He did not look at me right away. He stopped near the boards, adjusted the tape on his stick, and stood there like a man obeying an instruction that cost him something. Not running. Not approaching. Not asking me to make this easier for him.
Just there.
Waiting to be seen.
I lifted my camera because it gave my hands somewhere to go.
He looked up.
Our eyes met across the ice.
I did not smile.
I did not forgive him.
But I did not look away.
And from the far boards, with two hundred feet of cold air between us, Evan McKinney held his ground.