For five full minutes, Maya and I stood outside the arena pretending we had a plan.
We didn’t.
People streamed around us in loud, happy groups, their faces pink from the cold and the win. Car horns sounded from every direction. Someone had started a chant near the parking garage, and every few seconds another cluster of fans joined in, shouting Tristan’s last name as if he could hear them.
Hale. Hale. Hale.
Each repetition made something in my chest tighten.
I searched every face again.
A man in a dark coat crossed behind a line of taxis, and my heart lurched before he turned his head. Too short. Wrong hair. Near the players’ garage, someone in a suit climbed into an SUV with tinted windows. I took three quick steps toward it before realizing the man was one of the assistant coaches.
