Sienna was at Dean’s door before morning skate.
Six-forty. She’d never been to his apartment — in five months of midnight ice and concourse walks and careful distance, they had somehow never crossed this particular line — and she stood in the hallway of his building with two coffees going lukewarm in her hands and understood that the line was crossing itself today whether they’d agreed to it or not.
He opened the door in practice-day clothes, half a piece of toast in one hand, and went very still.
“What happened,” he said. Not a question. A man reading her face.
“Maria Ruiz called me last night.”
The toast went down on the table inside the door. He stepped back to let her in, and she watched him do the thing he did when something hit him hard — the careful stillness, the jaw, the half
