NOVA
The coffee run had been a masterclass in choreographed deception.
At 1:00 PM, per Diane’s exact, terrifyingly specific instructions, Cole and I had exited the Glaciers’ practice facility together. We didn’t take the private players’ exit in the underground garage. We walked right out the front glass doors, into the crisp Chicago afternoon, and headed toward a high-end, heavily trafficked artisan coffee shop two blocks down.
“Walk slower,” Cole had muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He was wearing a dark peacoat with the collar turned up against the wind, looking like a cologne advertisement that had gained sentience and a bad attitude. “Diane said we need to look like we’re enjoying each other’s company, not marching to an execution.”
“I walk with purpose, C
