Page 23 of Puck You Both

He didn't deny it. He returned it. He took Patrick's careful little fact, sharpened it, and slid it straight between his ribs.

Patrick's face barely changes. A small lift of his brows, gone fast. But that's enough. I've seen this man face penalty shots with less surprise. Wall has actually caught him flat-footed.

Nobody moves.

Wall's fingers still cover one side of the puck. Patrick holds the other. Their hands are almost absurd together, big and bigger, touching because neither one has decided how this ends.

Then Patrick releases it, puck settling into Wall's palm.

No victory, no retreat. Wall closes his hand around it, gives Patrick one unreadable look, and turns toward the door.

I launch myself upright and become fascinated by the clipboard. Extremely fascinating clipboard. A marvel of modern office supplies. I inspect the metal clip while Wall steps into the hallway and passes close enough that the sleeve of his hoodie brushes my arm.

He doesn't look at me.

I don't look at him, except for the part where I absolutely do the second his back is turned.

His stride stays even, the puck held tight at his side.

And his ears are bright red.

Patrick comes out a moment later. The calm is back on his face, except I know where to look now. His mouth has flattened at one corner, and there's color rising beneath his short beard.

I make it two steps beside him before the words break containment. “Wall's—”

“Not here.”

Right. Yes. Discretion.

I vibrate silently instead.

We gather our things at record speed disguised as an ordinary pace. Mama Paws intercepts us near the front desk and insists we take cookies for the drive. I begin the polite dance of explaining that it isn't necessary while accepting the container with both hands and checking whether there are chocolate chips in it.

There are.

Outside, the cold hits my face. Patrick holds out his hand beside the car.

I clutch the keys to my chest and stare at him.

He keeps his hand out.

The betrayal is enormous. After everything we've been through together today, he chooses now to strip me of my rights.

I surrender the keys.

Temporarily. Under protest.

The protest is entirely nonverbal because my mouth is busy with a cookie.

Patrick fixes my parking before we leave, which takes three corrections and a private war with the curb. I provide moral support from the passenger seat by eating a second cookie and thinking about two giant hands refusing to release the same puck.

Once we're on the road, I decide the conversation can wait until tomorrow.

It has been a long day. We both need time to process, and I can be mature about giving it to us.

I last until the first traffic light.

Honestly, a personal best.