Shapes.
“Was this one team?”
“It’s league culture. Some rooms worse than others.”
“What makes a room worse?”
He looks at me for the first time. “Captains who think protecting the guy means protecting the secret.”
My pen stops.
He pushes back from the table. “I need to go.”
“One more—”
“Eleven minutes.”
He stands up.
I do not push.
He leaves four dollars for the coffee and is gone.
I sit with my cold cup and look at what I have written.
Captains who think protecting the guy means protecting the secret.
I draw a box around it.
Feel stupid for drawing the box.
Cross it out.
My laptop battery dies in the parking lot.
I forgot the charger.
I sit in the car and tell the dashboard to go fuck itself, which improves nothing and helps me a little.
Back in the newsroom, I borrow Luis’s charger. He hands it over, eyes on his burrito. Our relationship is the most functional one I have going right now.
Gil is in the glass office with the door open, reading proofs on his tablet. He looks up when I pass.
“Peyton.”
“In here.”
I go in and sit across from his desk. He does not close the door.
“Where are you on the pitch?” he asks.
“Source development. Former players, one equipment-side lead, Marcus is still working the funding trail.”
“Usable?”
“Not yet. Dwyer gave me culture, not evidence. Strong context, weak attribution.”
Gil taps his pen once against the desk. “Legal will not clear culture.”