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"I'm not sneaking in the back of a hotel," Hale says.

"It's not sneaking. It's a door."

"I'm not doing it."

He gets off the bus. The door hisses open and he walks straight into it, bag on his shoulder, head up, the way you'd walk into a corner knowing you're about to get hit.

I'm up before I think about it. Sorel grabs my sleeve. I pull it free.

"Rémy—"

"He's my roommate," I say, and go.

The noise hits me first. It's not like the arena. The arena's one big sound. This is sharp and close and coming from every direction, shutters clicking like insects, and voices shouting his name.

"Owen! Owen, over here!"

"Owen, is it true about the marriage?"

"Owen, did Laurel leak the story?"

Hale keeps walking. He doesn't look at them. He's got maybe thirty feet of sidewalk between the bus and the hotel doors, and they're moving with him, walking backward in front of him, crowding in on both sides.

"Owen, were you and Laurel sleeping together?"

"Owen, is there someone else?"

He stumbles. Just a little. His bad knee catches on the curb, and for one second he's off balance, and the cameras go crazy, like that's the shot, like a man tripping is what they came for.

I'm next to him. I don't remember getting there.

"Hey," I say to the nearest photographer, a guy with a shaved head and a backward baseball cap. "Back up."

"Who're you?"

"I'm the guy telling you to back up."

"That's the kid," somebody says behind him. "That's the gay rookie. Castel."

Now half the cameras swing toward me, and I think, good. I think, look at me instead. I step in front of Hale, between him and the biggest lens, and I smile my best smile, the one I use on reporters when I want them to write down the joke and forget the question.

"Hi," I say. "Yes. It's me. Pink laces. Big fan of your vests."

"Rémy, what do you think about the Hale divorce?"

"I think it's none of my business," I say, "and I think it's none of yours either. I think you should go take pictures of somebody who wants you to."

"Is Owen⁠—"

"Owen's got a game tonight. So do I. Come watch. Tickets are very reasonable." I put my hand on Hale's arm without looking at him. His arm's like a rock under the sleeve of his jacket. "Excuse us."

I walk. I keep my hand on his arm, and I walk, and I don't let myself go fast, because fast looks like running. The doors slide open. The lobby is cold and quiet and smells like coconut, and the doors slide shut behind us, and the noise cuts off like somebody turned down a radio.

Hale doesn't stop walking. He goes straight through the lobby, past the front desk, past Beth coming in through the garage door with the key cards. He's not going toward the elevators. He's going the other way, toward a door marked STAIRS.

"Hale."

He pushes through it. I follow.