“Pull over at the next stop,” I say.
“We’re fine.”
“You played half of Round One Game Five, left a playoff game in the middle of it, changed in seven minutes, and have been driving on adrenaline and one pregame meal. Pull over.”
His eyes cut to mine. “Peyton.”
“Ryan.”
There is a warning in his voice.
There is one in mine too.
For a moment, the cab goes charged and small. Not flirtation. Not a fight. Two control freaks after midnight on a highway, both terrified, both trying to decide which one gets to be stubborn.
He exhales through his nose.
“Five minutes.”
“Great. I can do miracles with five minutes and a convenience store.”
The gas station is a square of fluorescent light in the middle of nowhere. Two pumps and a hand-painted OPEN 24 HOURS sign. A cashier behind thick glass reading a paperback with a shirtless man on the cover.
Ryan parks and stays behind the wheel.
“I’ll go,” I say.
“I can get my own food.”
“I know. This is not a referendum on your masculinity.”
He nearly smiles.
Almost is enough tonight.
Inside, I buy two terrible turkey sandwiches, three waters, coffee, ibuprofen, a banana, and a bag of chips because emotional support should have salt.
When I get back, Ryan is standing outside the truck, one hand braced on the bed, stretching his left thigh with a grimace he does not quite hide.
“High shot?” I ask.
“Second period.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“That one was not a question.”
He looks at me. I look back.
The air between us changes.
Under the buzzing gas station lights, with his hoodie pushed up his forearms and exhaustion carving lines around his mouth, Ryan looks less like a captain than a man held together by habit. I want to touch him so badly my fingers ache.
He must see it.
His voice drops. “Peyton.”