Page 190 of Make the Play

But I’m not, and tonight’s game is no different to the last one I missed.

He looks like hell, and he’s not skating well. His passes are wild, his shifts are short, and when some poor guy from the Thunder gets in his space, Chase doesn’t chirp, he drops gloves.

He gets in three separate fights before the third period ends. Two clean ones and one near-ejection. He’s all shoulders and fury, slamming guys into the boards like he’s trying to make his own pain loud enough to echo.

He gets sent to the box twice, then spends the last four minutes of the game glued to the bench, chewing his mouthguard arrogantly for the cameras.

The Storm lose again. Not by too much, but it’s ugly.

I sit there in silence, holding my breath, waiting to see if he does press.

He does.

They cut to the tunnel, and he’s flushed and damp and still half-feral looking, jersey askew and towel slung around his neck. His eyes look empty, and I want to reach through the damn screen and shake his shoulders.

Reporters throw out the usual questions—chippy game, rough chemistry, playoff pressure—and he dodges like he always does.

Until someone asks something personal.

“Your girlfriend’s been pretty visible this season. Noticed she wasn’t in the box tonight. Think that had anything to do with your performance?”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t laugh it off or smirk or play it cute like he normally would. Instead, he stares straight down the camera lens with sweat dripping from his brow.

“Yeah. She wasn’t there.” He exhales, voice steady. “Guess I’m still figuring out how to play when my center of gravity’s not in the room.”

And that’s it. They move on, and he walks off.

But I sit frozen, heart cracking open in my ribs, because he knows. HeknowsI’m watching, and he was talking tome.

My phone buzzes in my hand before I even have time to process the ache.

I answer, distracted.

“Hello?”

“Zoe?” It’s a guy’s voice, friendly and familiar. “Hey, it’s Nate. From Denver Towers security.”

Right. The tall one with the buzz cut. He used to say hi to me every morning on my way to Pulse. I think he’s a Storm fan from what he’s said to Chase, too. Always polite, always smiling.

“Oh, hey. Hi.”

“I, uh… pulled a few strings. Got eyes on the footage you’ve been asking about.”

My stomach dips.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Figured you had enough on your plate, and wasn’t sure if anyone had followed up. I’ve got it stored off-network now.”

Relief floods me. Real, bone-deep relief.

“That’s amazing, thank you so much. Seriously, I’ve been going in circles trying to get someone to help.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, the system sucks. Anyway, if I’m gonna get it to you, we need to be careful, because I kinda went against protocol. I could drop it at your place—unless that’s weird. We could meet somewhere quieter.”

I don’t even hesitate.

“Yeah. Let’s meet at The Matchstick—it’s in a part of RiNo that used to be super cool, but it’s not as well-known now.”

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