Ryan #2
I smile.
Not the broadcast smile or the captain’s polite, deflecting version. Not the easy thing fans can put on a poster and call charm.
This one is slower.
Private enough to be rude.
Sharp enough to count as contact.
It says: I know you are watching.
It says: I know what you want.
It says: I decide what you get.
Her pen stops.
Good.
I want the smile to land. Want her to feel the door close before she touches the handle.
Then I turn away.
Easy. Unhurried.
Like I have won before the first question is ever asked.
I make it three steps before wanting to look back annoys me enough to keep walking.
Peyton
The smile hits like a flare under the skin.
The friendly jumbotron grin is gone. This one is aimed straight at me.
Deliberate. The kind men like him use when they know someone is watching and want to establish territory without saying a word.
I know you’re watching.
I decide what you get.
My pen digs into the page hard enough to leave a mark.
Around me, Frost Bank Center is losing its mind over the shutout, but all I can see is Ryan McAllister turning away like he has already won an argument I have not started yet.
Fine.
I like starting arguments.
I write: Captains room before game. Rookie fuse. McKinney wildcard. McAllister notices everything and hates being noticed back.
Then, because apparently I have lost the professional high ground before introductions, I add: Smile should come with a warning label.
I stare at that sentence.
Terrible note. Accurate note.
The safe story is easy. McAllister goal and assist. Volkov perfect in net. Stampede disciplined in rivalry shutout. Evan McKinney with the reckless pass everyone will call instinct because it worked.
Accurate, dead on arrival.
The real story is walking into the tunnel with a bruise he refused to favor and a smile he used like a locked door.
So I go after it.
The corridors behind the lower bowl are quieter, all concrete, fluorescent light, and the fading rumble of celebration. I am not cleared for the locker room area yet.
I round the corner near equipment storage just as the double doors swing open.
Cold air spills out.
Then Ryan.
Base layers. Damp hair. Skates slung over one shoulder. The captain without the jersey, without the cameras, without the city chanting his name.
The bruise is already rising along his shin where he blocked the shot. He keeps his weight even anyway. Barely. Half an inch of stubbornness pretending to be balance.
I write bruise favoring? in the margin.
Then I cross out the question mark.
He does not see me. He leans against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, chest moving like he has been holding himself together by force and only just remembered he has lungs.
It is too private, and I should step back.
I don’t.
The hallway has no business making him look like this. All hard lines and bare throat, damp hair curling at the nape. It is not a story detail. It is not useful. My body records it anyway.
His eyes open.
They are not jumbotron blue up close. They are sharper. Darker. Annoyingly alert.
The unguarded man disappears so fast I almost believe I imagined him.
Almost.
His gaze drops to my notebook, my recorder, my press badge.
“You lost?” he asks.
“Not anymore.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “That is not an answer.”
“It was not meant to comfort you.”
“Reporters usually start with their names.”
“Hockey players usually start with quotes someone else approved.”
His mouth curves. “You always this friendly?”
“Only when trespassing.”
That gets me a real look.
A heartbeat. Enough.
He pushes off the wall and steps closer. Not aggressive. Deliberate. The hallway narrows around him.
He smells like ice, sweat, and soap. I hate that I notice the soap.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
The word lands low.
My pulse betrays me before my face does.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Comes back up.
He notices too much.
So do I. The faint nick at his jaw. The water caught in his lashes. The way his hand tightens once around the laces of his skates and then deliberately loosens, as if even wanting something is a habit he can correct.
“Do you say that to all reporters?” I ask.
“Only the ones who look pleased with themselves while breaking rules.”
“I am not pleased.”
“No?” His gaze drops to my mouth again. “Could have fooled me.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
“Probably.”
“Then you admit this is worth finding.”
The hint of humor leaves his face.
“I admit you don’t know what you’re walking into.”
“And you do?”
For one second, something tired moves behind his eyes. Then it is gone.
“More than you.”
He steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine just firmly enough to prove he chose the contact.
Heat follows it, ridiculous and immediate. I do not move until it has passed because moving would admit it landed. Behind me, the locker-room door exhales another wash of cold air, and I stand there warm under my blazer, furious at physics.
He does not look back.
I stand there with my recorder cold in my hand and his warning still under my skin.
I have my hook.
I also have a problem.