Page 45 of The Grumpy Defenseman
Samantha
The city hit different this morning.
I got to the facility early because early meant control. Early meant empty hallways, clear sight lines, and the small mercy of entering a room before anyone had decided which version of you they were going to look for.
The rink was already awake. Not loud yet, but moving toward it. A skate sharpener whined somewhere behind the equipment room. Someone laughed in the locker room,the sound low and brief. The building carried the usual pre-practice atmosphere: caffeine, damp gear, and men pretending their bodies did not hurt.
I set my camera bag near the boards and began assembling myself piece by piece.
Lens. Strap. Battery. Breath.
Professional face.
That last one took the longest.
Across the ice, Ryan was talking to Finn near the boards, his posture relaxed but his attention exact. Captain energy. Quiet correction. Finn listened with his whole body, chin lifted, body taut, like every note was both instruction and challenge. A week ago, I might have shot it. This morning, I let the moment pass.
I am choosing my frames carefully now.
Maybe too carefully.
Brick found me before practice started.
I sensed he was approaching before he spoke. Men like Zach Novak didn’t sneak up; they brought their presence with them. He stopped beside me at theboards, one hand wrapped around a coffee, hair still damp from the shower, expression stripped of its usual grin.
That was how I knew this was not going to be small talk.
“Morning, Cole.”
“Brick.”
He looked out at the ice instead of at me. For a moment, neither of us said anything. The rink hummed. A puck hit the boards at the far end. Somewhere behind us, a trainer called for someone to stop being stupid, which narrowed the suspect pool only slightly.
“He went looking for you,” Brick said.
My fingers tightened around the camera body.
I did not look at him. “Who?”
Brick gave me the look without turning his head. Somehow, it still landed.
“Yesterday. After practice. He came back. You were gone.”
Something in my stomach tightened, which was extremely unwelcome and rejected on principle.
“I had work to do,” I said.
“Yeah.”
He let the word sit between us. Not judgment. Not agreement. Just a place to stand.
“And before you decide, I’m here to plead his case,” Brick said, “I’m not.”
I looked at him then.
He was still watching the ice.
“Good,” I said. “Because I don’t want a defense attorney.”
