Page 264 of Wild Card 13

Oliver’s gaze touched me once. He did not say anything. If he had, I might have cracked around the edges.

Cam waited by the door until Victor had his bag over his shoulder. Then he opened it.

The hallway noise spilled in. Staff voices. Wheels from a cart somewhere near the loading corridor. The distant thud of arena cleanup beginning around us. Talon Arena after a loss always sounded strange, like a party being dismantled in another room.

Victor walked out first. Cam followed. The door swung shut behind them.

Marco exhaled. “Well,” he said, voice lower than usual. “That was significantly less fun than my original pup-cup material.”

Harry rubbed a hand down his face. “Your original material was also terrible.”

“Yes, but in a charming way.”

A laugh broke out near Jonah’s stall. Small. Careful. Relieved.

The room started moving again by degrees. A locker shut. Someone turned the shower off. Milo pulled on his hoodie. Harry muttered something about his knees. Marco got dressed with less theater than usual, which meant even he knew the air needed a minute.

Alois stood. “You are staring.”

“I’m processing.”

“That is new for you.”

I huffed once. It almost became a laugh and did not quite make it. “There he is.”

Alois tightened the knot in his tie. “You handled it.”

I looked down at the tape twisted around my fingers. The adhesive had stuck lightly to my skin. I peeled it free. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

“You sure? Because I still wanted to put him through a wall.”

Alois looked back at me, expression unreadable to anyone who had not spent too many months learning the difference between his silences. “I did not say you became a saint.”

My throat tightened before I could stop it. I looked away fast, toward the Frosthawks logo stitched into the carpet, the sharp wing marks cut through charcoal and ember red beneath the scuffed toes of my dress shoes.

I let out a short breath. “Great talk.”

He shrugged into his jacket, tugged it into place over his shoulders, and glanced toward the door. “I agree.” Alois picked up his bag. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Out.”

“Specific.”

“You need air.”

I stood because arguing with Alois after a loss required a level of energy I did not currently possess. Around us, the room had settled into a quieter version of normal. Not healed. Not fixed. But functional. Men dressing. Talking low. Avoiding some things and naming others. The season still dying in the corner while everyone pretended not to hear it breathe.

Oliver caught my eye as I grabbed my jacket. He gave one small nod.

I followed Alois into the hallway.

The corridor outside the locker room was colder, brighter, washed in the hard overhead lights that made every scuff on the concrete visible. A laundry cart sat abandoned near the wall. Down the hall, arena staff moved with postgame efficiency, stripping the building back down to bones now that the crowd had gone. The smell shifted from sweat and tape to cleaning solution, melted ice, and stale popcorn from the concourse above.

Alois walked beside me without speaking. That was one of the better things about him. He did not fill quiet just because it existed. He let it stretch until a person either found their footing or revealed they had none.