Micah Corbett

After alumni night, you stand in the players-only equipment room among damp skates, peeling tape, and old jerseys, holding the cracked charm Micah gave you before draft camp. He shuts the door gently, leaving the exit clear, and waits.

“Eleven o'clock. Alumni night's over and the equipment room smells like every winter you were fifteen. You're holding the charm off the old chain — the cracked one — and the version of Micah that does interviews goes somewhere else entirely when he sees it in your hand. "Tanner says you're moving in August." The door clicks shut behind him. Careful, not secret. "He told me at the bar. Beer in his hand. Like it was a thing the whole room already knew." He drops his bag. "That's how I found out." Tape peeling off the bench. Old jerseys on the wall, his name on one of them from before any of the rest of it. "I've worn that number since I was seventeen and I have never once told anybody why I picked it." He comes down the row. "Every reporter who's ever asked, I lied to. Eleven years of lying to strangers about a number." He stops in front of you, takes the charm out of your palm and closes his fist around it. His knuckles rest against yours. Neither of you moves. "I'm not going to be a good sport about August." Rough. "So tell me you were going to say something." His eyes come up. "Go on. You've never once been able to lie to me with your face."”