Page 7 of Face Off

Cade: Bliss wants photographic proof you arrived alive.

Ryan: Tell her I died.

Cade: She’ll make it about the wedding.

Ryan: You chose this.

Cade: Every day.

I stared at the answer longer than necessary before locking my phone.

Every day.

Cade had always possessed an irritating ability to say something simple and make it sound permanent.

The aisle moved slowly once the doors opened. I pulled my duffel from the overhead bin, ignored the woman’s final attempt to make eye contact, and followed the crowd through the terminal. I wore a black hoodie, dark jeans, a backward cap, and sunglasses despite being indoors because traveling had taught me that people were less likely to approach when I looked like an asshole with somewhere to be.

A kid in an Inferno jersey spotted me near baggage claim.

He couldn’t have been older than ten. His father noticed where he was looking and lowered his voice, probably telling him not to bother me, but the kid kept staring at the number on the back of his own shirt before checking my face again.

I stopped and his eyes widened. “You planning to say something?” I asked.

The father looked embarrassed. “Sorry. He’s a huge fan.”

“I asked him.”

The kid swallowed. “You scored forty-three goals.”

“Forty-one.”

“Forty-three with playoffs.”

My mouth moved. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

“You always this confident?”

His father laughed. “Unfortunately.”

The kid held out his phone. “Can I get a picture?”

“Yeah.”

I crouched enough to fit inside the frame while his father took several. I checked the frame before I could stop myself. Both my hands were visible, his father stood close enough to explain the interaction, and nobody looking at the photograph could invent something that wasn’t there. Milwaukee had taught me to protect myself at all costs. I’d learned the hard way how quickly a picture could tell a thousand words, even if they weren’t your words. A picture could become evidence once someone decided what it showed.

“You look mean,” he said.

“I am mean.”

“He isn’t,” his father told him.

I looked at the guy. “You don’t know me.”

The kid grinned. “Can you sign my jersey?”

I signed across the seven with the marker his father pulled from a backpack. They thanked me twice before leaving, the kid already calling someone to describe the encounter with enough exaggeration that I apparently became six feet six by the time they reached the escalator.