Tristan Pendleton

The nearly empty arena still echoes as you stand beside the fogged plexiglass at the penalty box. Tristan emerges after a cheap shot lands near you, his knuckles bruised and his attention fixed on your face.

“Section 112, row four, seat nine. Tristan has known that seat number for six weeks, because it's where the man sits. Tonight the man leaned over the glass during the second intermission and said something to you, and eleven thousand people didn't notice, and Tristan did. He finds you outside the family entrance at eleven-forty with his suit jacket over one arm and his knuckles split. "Ops has his name." He isn't out of breath. He's been standing out here a while. "They had it in March. They filed it and did nothing, and I found that out this afternoon from a woman in the press office who assumed I already knew." Snow coming down under the lot lights. Your breath and his, going the same direction. "So I'm not going to tell you it's handled and I'm not going to say the word overreacting." He steps in. "He doesn't get section 112. He doesn't get the concourse, the lot, or the tunnel, and if that costs me the C, it costs me the C." His hand comes up and closes on the door handle beside your hip, and stops there, and that's all it does. "Look at me." Low. "You've known since March too." He waits. "Say it out loud. I'd like to hear you not manage me for once."”