Page 124 of Player Misconduct
The screen glows up at me, mocking in its silence.
I stayed here all night, hoping maybe she would have a change of heart and come back, but I was up all night, and she never showed up.
I have to get up and head in for practice, but I just sit here with the few minutes I have before I have to leave, thinking of what I could have done differently last night.
Me:Hey, doc. Just checking in. Movers tomorrow — I'll be there. Promise I won't hit anyone this time.
Sent at 7:43 AM.
Read at 7:43 AM.
Nothing after that.
Just that tiny, taunting word beneath my message: Read.
She saw it. She opened it. She chose not to answer.
I called the movers earlier this morning and left a message on their voicemail to confirm they were still scheduled for her apartment tomorrow morning but it was too early when I called so I left a message.
I tell myself it's fine. She's mad. She has every right to be. The brawl right outside the locker room, the cameras, the headlines that won't stop multiplying like weeds—of course, she's upset. Of course, she needs time to cool down. These are the kinds of headlines she was trying to avoid.
But the silence doesn't feel like anger.
It feels like the distance that I thought we were finally past. The kind that starts as a crack and ends as a canyon.
I set the mug in the sink, the clink of ceramic against metal is too loud in the empty apartment. The place feels bigger than it should—too much space, too much quiet, like the walls know something I don't want to admit.
My phone buzzes, and my heart does that stupid leap it always does when I think it might be her.
It's not.
Trey: You coming to morning skate? I just drove by the house, and your car is parked in the driveway.
I type back quickly.
Me: Yeah. Leaving now. I'll be right behind you.
Trey:Did Kendall ever show up last night?
Me: Nope.
I grab my bag, double-check that I have everything—skates, stick, tape, the protein shake I made this morning after a carb-loaded breakfast to fuel today's practice—and head for the door.
But I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. Not just wrong. Off.
Like the world shifted two degrees while I wasn't looking, and now nothing lines up quite right.
I make the drive to the arena purely on muscle memory.
A left out of the gated community, right on Pine, straight through the stretch where the coffee shops blur into boutiques and bike lanes, then onto I-5. I've taken this route a few hundred times since joining the team since Trey, Kaenan, Coach Haynes, and a few other retired players live out here, but today it feels longer. Heavier.
My phone sits in the cup holder, screen dark, taunting me with its silence. I glance at it every few seconds, willing it to light up. Willing her name to appear.
It doesn't.
At the red light on 4th, I pick it up and scroll back through our thread. The last few messages are all me.
Me: How are you feeling? Did Niko let you sleep?
