7. Graham #2
Colin threw one hand toward the stalled cameras. “Can somebody get him off my set before we lose another take?”
Graham hardly heard the complaint. The envelope sat against his palm, his full legal name printed across the service label. Whatever sponsor amendment required a personal courier had already cost production enough time.
He let the stick drop.
The composite shaft struck the panels with a hollow clatter that carried across the set. Graham gripped the flap of the envelope and tore it open, snapping the red string tab. He yanked the stapled packet free.
No apparel logo marked the first page.
No franchise letterhead, either.
A block of legal text filled the page beneath the heading.
“Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.”
Graham stared at the words.
He read them again.
The type remained the same.
No.
He dragged his thumb down the margin as he searched for some line that would explain why a divorce petition had his name attached to it. Maybe legal had handed the wrong packet to the courier. Maybe another Graham Delaney existed somewhere close enough for some clerk to make an expensive mistake.
Then he reached the petitioner line.
Riley.
He stopped noticing the studio. The lights still burned over the set, crew members still moved near the camera rigs, and someone behind him asked whether they were resetting, but the only thing that mattered was her name printed on that page.
He flipped deeper into the packet.
The staple pulled against the corner as the pages bent in his grip. Legal phrases crowded every section, but he stopped trying to read when he reached the signature.
Riley’s handwriting.
He knew the way she formed the capital R. He knew the small hook at the end of her last stroke, the same one she used on birthday cards, delivery forms, rental agreements, every scrap of paper she had signed beside him when they owned nothing worth protecting.
She had signed this.
Not a lawyer acting alone. Not some clerk filing the wrong form.
Riley had signed it.
Nicolle stepped closer and peered at the papers. “Are those the contract revisions? Because the brand has horrible timing dropping paperwork in the middle of a live shoot.”
Graham looked back at the heading.
“Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.”
Minutes ago, tomorrow had seemed simple. Finish the commercial. Drive south. Find Riley. Put the ring back onto her finger and force them both to sit down long enough to end months of stubborn silence.
There was no standoff on the page.
She had stopped waiting.
“The brand didn’t send this.” His voice came out rough. “Riley did.”
Nicolle’s face fell, but Graham was already looking back down at the packet.
Colin marched toward them. “We are bleeding thousands of dollars every sixty seconds, Graham! I don’t care what some mailboy delivered. Grab the stick and hit your mark!”
Graham made no move to pick it up.
He kept his eyes on Riley’s signature.
The woman he had spent months assuming he could retrieve whenever his calendar cleared had gone to a lawyer instead. She had taken the silence he considered temporary and put it into legal language.
Nicolle reached toward the top page without touching it. “What did she send?”
Graham lowered the papers.
For the first time since Game 7, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.
“It’s a divorce petition. Riley’s done with me.”
Graham kept the petition at his side and looked across the set.
Snow foam covered the panels around his skates.
Cameras waited beyond the lights. Nicolle stood a few feet away in a glittering costume designed to match the campaign boards hanging behind them.
His own gear carried the same sponsor marks he had spent the summer angling toward every lens that asked.
An assistant near camera one lifted a hand. “Graham, we need you back on your opening mark.”
He looked down at Riley’s signature again.
For months, every miserable afternoon like this had carried the same excuse. The flights were for Riley. The interviews were for Riley. The ridiculous photographs and fake chemistry and scripted smiles were all building a fortress around the woman who had once counted grocery money beside him.
Except Riley had hired a lawyer while he was standing under studio lights pretending snow smelled like winter.
He gripped the petition hard enough to crease the pages.
I did this for us.
The sentence had carried him through everything.
Now it sounded obscene.
He looked from the papers to the abandoned stick on the floor. Brand-new tape wrapped the top knob. No puck had scarred the blade. No opposing player had chopped at the shaft. Someone in wardrobe had built the thing to photograph well.
Just like the rest of this place.
Colin raised the megaphone. “Graham, whatever domestic issue you’ve got going on can wait until we finish the setup. We need everyone back on their marks.”
Graham grabbed the hem of the branded practice shell and dragged it violently over his head. The fabric caught, then ripped as he pulled it free. He dropped the sponsor-covered garment beside the stick, exposing the rigid pads beneath.
Nicolle stared at him. “What are you doing?”
He folded the petition once so he could keep it secure in one hand.
“Leaving.”
Her eyes widened. “No. Graham, stop.”
He turned his back on the cameras and started toward the rear of the stage.
Nicolle’s skates scraped across the panels behind him. She caught his arm before he reached the edge of the artificial snow.
“You cannot walk off this set! The client expects us to clear three more setups right now!”
Her fingers tightened around his sleeve.