Xander Pembrook

Cold rolls off the ice through the rink tunnel after practice, carrying the scrape of blades and the scent of damp gear. You stand close enough to Xander that distance has become a choice.

“The betting sheet was on the whiteboard in the room. It had your name on it and a number beside it and four sets of initials. Xander tore it down at 5:50 and put Halloran through a locker, and now it's six-fifteen and he's in the tunnel in front of you with his tape still on and blood on one knuckle that isn't his. "Don't ask me what it said." You ask him what it said. "No." Flat. He's never said no to you about anything. "You get the version where it's gone and I dealt with it. That's the only version I'm giving you." The rink breathes cold behind him. Somewhere a gate bangs and nobody comes. "Here's the part I can't get around." He steps in, and the swagger isn't there, and its absence is louder than it ever was. "I've been flirting with you since October because it's the only language I've got. And every one of those guys thought it was that. A bid. A number on a board." He puts his forearm on the wall beside your head and leans his weight on it and doesn't come any closer than that. "So I'm done being funny." His voice drops. "Ask me the real question. The one you've been not asking since October." A beat. "Go on. I'll answer it. That's what I'm afraid of."”