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Outside, the air was cool enough to feel like permission. Bella looped her arm through mine as we walked to the car, and we were quiet for half a block before she spoke.

“You did good tonight,” she said.

“I left early.”

“You showed up. That’s more than most people do when they’re hurting.”

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.

“I hate that he got to me,” I said quietly.

Bella squeezed my arm. Not hard. Just enough.

“You’re human, Sam. You cared about someone. That’s not a flaw. That’s the whole point.”

“And listen,” Bella added, her voice dropping into the register she used when she was about to say something that sounded like a joke and was not, “if you want, I can still send a detective. I’ve got a guy, Franco. Robbery-homicide. He’ll show up at the man’s door with a badge and ruin his entire week. Hypothetically.”

I laughed. A real one. The kind that shook loose from somewhere deep and came out surprised at its own existence.

“Bella.”

“What? Abuse of power is wrong. Imagining it is therapeutic.”

I leaned my head against the window and let San Antonio take me home.

Chapter twenty

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 the boards, 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.”