We beat Dallas in overtime, three-two. I had the second assist on the game-winner, a clean feed to Colt who found Zach backdoor. The team should feel light. Road win. Two points. Playoff race tightening in our favor.
Instead, I sit near the back of the team jet with a towel still damp in my bag, my ribs sore from a blocked shot, and Peyton’s article sitting in my head where the win should be.
The guys are loose in the restless way players get after a close win. Colt and Finn argue over whether cereal counts as soup because “milk is broth if you’re brave.” Roman plays cards with Kowalski and loses with quiet dignity. Evan lounges across the aisle with his headphones around his neck, watching the cabin like he is waiting for someone to do something interesting enough to mock.
Peyton boards after the coaching staff.
Hair down this time. Mouth set. The kind of face a woman wears when she has already chosen trouble and is waiting for trouble to notice.
Her eyes find mine.
She can sit anywhere.
She walks straight to the empty seat beside me before anyone can redirect her.
“Taken?”
“Now it is.”
She sits.
She has no notebook out, no recorder, nothing that looks like armor except the way she keeps her hands folded in her lap instead of touching me.
Across the aisle, Evan looks from Peyton to me, then lifts both brows.
I give him a flat stare.
Evan smiles like Christmas has come early and puts his headphones on without starting any music.
The plane lifts.
Team noise settles into cards, headphones, half-sleep. The cabin lights dim. San Antonio waits somewhere beyond the black window and the thin line of wing light.
Peyton keeps her hands in her lap, as if distance has helped either of us so far.
She looks straight ahead.
“I wrote it,” she says.
My chest tightens. “The article.”
“Yes.”
“When does it run?”
“Tuesday morning.”
“Did you send it?”
“Earlier today.”
I turn my head. “And you sat beside me anyway?”
“You deserved to know.”
“Before or after you used me?”
She flinches.