Page 10 of Player Misconduct
There’s an edge you can feel too.
Series: 2–1 them.
Denver tonight. Steal this one and the world evens out. Lose it, and the season tilts the wrong direction.
I like road games. The world gets small in a good way. We only have each other to rely on, and the fans who show up are the die-hard kind. No distractions, no noise—just hockey.
I jog up the stairs to the plane two at a time. Part superstition, part habit. Also because I want to get to Row 9 before Theo does.
Kendall’s already there, window seat. Headphones looped around her neck like she meant to wear them and forgot. Her team-issued sweats look softer than anything I own; the hood is up, blonde hair spilling out in a messy, perfect cascade. Her bag’s tucked neatly beneath the seat in front of her. Her hands—steady in blood, steady on the bench, steady in chaos—are clenched on her knees. One bounces just slightly. Not loud enough for anyone else to notice.
But I do.
Claustrophobia doesn’t care that you’re the smartest person on the plane.
“Seat taken?” I ask, already angling my duffel into the overhead.
She tips her chin up to see me, gives the same quick scan she gives every player, as if checking for an injury. “Theo usually sits with me,” she says, the kind of sentence that would stop most people cold.
“He hasn’t gotten here yet,” I say, “and I brought a care package.”
Her eyes narrow, skeptical but interested. “A care package?”
I take the seat since she doesn’t object right away. Pull the loot from my backpack like a magician. “One neck pillow with a cooling gel insert. One stress ball… or my hand, if you prefer. You can squeeze until you break it. I’m strong.”
That earns me a muffled chuckle. I take it as a win.
“And—” I keep going, “one bag of gummy bears you pretend you don’t like but always steal from Theo, one spare power bank because you always forget yours, and—” I set the crown jewel onher tray “—an iPhone I bought last night so I could download this claustrophobia podcast offline. No ads. The good kind. A woman with a soothing voice like a sauna towel.”
“You bought a phone for a podcast?” she asks, somewhere between disbelief and something softer.
“It was the cheapest one,” I say. “I didn't have to leverage my hockey contract to afford it. Also got the premium app. They plant a forest when you buy it.”
The corner of her mouth fights a smile. “Of course they do.”
Finally, I spot Theo boarding. Kendall’s scrolling through the phone, too absorbed to notice him. His eyes find me sitting beside her, and he smirks—half amused, half unsurprised. Everyone in the locker room either knows or suspects my crush on Dr. Kendall Hensen. I don’t bother denying it.
Theo finds a seat a few rows up with one of the assistant coaches. Good. That feels like permission.
I reach for my seatbelt, and it’s not lost on me that Kendall’s knee stops bouncing as she looks over my offerings. She smells like orange sanitizer and chai. She’s already braver than anyone I know, which is why it kills me to watch her swallow fear like medicine every time we fly.
“Are you sure you want to sit with me?” she asks. “I took Dramamine. I’ll be terrible company in ten minutes.”
“I like terrible company,” I say. “I can keep up a two-way conversation on my own.”
She nods with a knowing smile, like she’s not surprised, and reaches for the neck pillow. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”
I help settle the pillow behind her neck, waiting for the nod that says it’s not too close, not too much. Her throat moves when she swallows. She presses the stress ball once, twice—testing it like a pulse.
“Phones in airplane mode,” I say.
“You’re bossy,” she mutters.
A callback to our last conversation.
I grin. It means she’s still thinking about that night on the bench. So am I.
The doors whoosh shut with that sound that makes the world small too fast. I queue the podcast, lean the phone against the tray lip. The woman’s voice fills the space—low, calm. I already know where Kendall’s starting; I listened first to make sure it would help.
