Ezra
"Clip will be good," I say. "The inside trip landed clean on the second pass. I'll mark it."
"Send it," she says, voice level. She ties her hoodie around her waist.
"Now?" I ask.
"Later," she says.
We pack up in silence for a minute that feels longer than it is. I coil my handwraps and tuck them in my bag. She slides her notebook into hers and zips it tight. The edge in the air isn't sharp, it's quiet and exact. I put it there and I know it.
"Walk you out?" I ask.
"No," she says. "I'm cutting through the library."
"Okay," I say.
She slings her bag over her shoulder and starts for the gate. I move to the rack to wipe down the pads. She gets six steps before she stops and turns.
"Ezra," she says. "Do you know what it feels like when you're a rumor and not
