Outside, Frost Bank Center releases people in waves. Jerseys, laughter, kids dragging foam fingers across concrete, the cold metallic smell of rink air fading into exhaust. I walk past the bright exits and sponsor banners into the darker edge of the lot where the building looks less like spectacle and more like work.
Ryan’s truck idles near the curb.
He does not get out. He leans across and pushes the passenger door open.
“This is very undercover for a man who was just on a scoreboard,” I say, climbing in.
“Seat belt.”
“Romance is alive.”
“Seat belt first.”
I click it because arguing with Ryan after a game is like trying to debate a wall with excellent shoulders.
He drives us away from the arena crowd, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console. His knuckles arebruised. His lip has stopped bleeding but not convincingly. Brake lights smear red across the windshield.
“Where are we going?”
“Food.”
“You ate after the game?”
“Protein shake.”
“That is not food. That is punishment in a cup.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “You sound like Colt.”
“Do not insult me when I am about to save your life with carbs.”
We end up at a taco window beside a laundromat, a place with two plastic tables, no atmosphere, and a line of people who know better than to trust pretty restaurants after midnight. Ryan stays in the truck with a cap pulled low while I order because he has the self-preservation instincts of a man who understands viral photos only when someone else explains them.
I come back with tacos, fries, and a soda big enough to require structural engineering.
Ryan looks at the bag. “That is too much food.”
“You are six-three and just got hit by men for three hours. Eat.”
“Six-two.”
“Emotionally six-three.”
He stares at me.
“That means nothing,” I say. “But it felt true.”
He eats.
For a while, neither of us performs anything. No questions for print. No captain voice. No teasing that tries to hide how badly we want each other in the narrow distance between our bodies. Just fries cooling in the bag, his knee near mine, the windshield fogging slightly at the edges.
“You went quiet in the third,” I say.
Ryan glances over.
“Not in a bad way,” I add. “You stopped forcing the middle. Let Evan cheat high. Let Finn take the wall even though he nearly over-skated it.”
“You watching film now?”