Rory
Dray was waiting for me by the exit, and something about the specific stillness of him told me he wasn't there by accident.
Practice had run long, most of the team already gone, the rink settling into that particular late-evening quiet where every sound carries further than it should. I'd taken my time in the trainer's room, unwinding tape, in no hurry to face the walk back to my apartment alone in the dark — and then I'd pushed through the exit doors and found him leaning against the wall beside them, arms crossed, watching the door like he'd been counting the minutes since practice ended.
"Long shower?" he asked, and there was nothing in his tone that should have made my stomach drop, and it dropped anyway.
"Trainer's room. My shoulder's still bothering me from the hit."
"Right
