Checking It Twice

Chapter Eleven- Hollis

Somehow, against all logic and better judgment, the friends thing works.

Not perfectly—but well enough that it scares me.

By the first week of December, Rowan Beckett and I have settled into something resembling a routine. We orbit each other without colliding, sharing space like it’s second nature. Meetings run smoother when he’s there. Long days feel shorter. The edges of my work soften in ways I didn’t expect.

We’ve become fluent in each other’s tells.

The way he taps his pen twice when a player is about to say something stupid. The way I tilt my head when a schedule is about to implode. One look, one raised brow, and we both know what’s coming.

It’s… easy.

Which is exactly what makes it dangerous.

“You’re color-coding wrong,” Rowan says, leaning over my shoulder as I update the Winter Wonderland roster.

I don’t look up. “I am absolutely not.”

“You used teal for ‘confirmed’ and green for ‘tentative.’ That’s chaos.”

“Teal is optimistic green,” I say flatly. “It’s aspirational.”

He laughs—a real laugh, warm and low. “That’s not how colors work, Reed.”

I finally glance at him. “And yet, here we are.”

He grins, backing away with his hands up. “Friends don’t judge each other’s systems.”

I snort. “Friends absolutely judge. They just do it quietly.”

He considers that. “Fair.”

We work late more often than we admit to anyone else. Coffee cups pile up. Music hums softly from someone’s forgotten speaker. At some point, Rowan starts bringing me the good pastries from the bakery near the arena—always claiming they had extras.

They never have extras.

I don’t call him on it.

Instead, I tell him his playlist is tragic.

He tells me my obsession with contingency plans is borderline concerning.

“Borderline?” I ask.

He smiles. “Okay. Deeply concerning.”

We’ve built a language out of harmless things.

It feels safe.

Griffin notices.

He doesn’t say anything outright—just lingers longer during meetings, watches us like he’s filing information away for later. But whatever he sees must pass his internal test, because he doesn’t intervene.

That’s almost worse.

One night, after a particularly long planning session, Rowan walks me to the exit.

Snow dusts the ground outside, just enough to make the streetlights glow.

“You ever notice,” he says, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, “that the arena gets quieter this time of year? Like it’s holding its breath.”

I glance back at the building. “It’s the holidays. Everyone’s distracted.”

“Still,” he says. “Feels different.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

We stop at the curb.

Neither of us moves.

“Well,” I say eventually, “thanks for not letting the decorations catch fire today.”

He smirks. “I saved Christmas. You’re welcome.”

I laugh, then catch myself. The sound lingers longer than it should.

He watches me—openly, not hiding it—and for a split second the line between us hums, visible and thin.

Then he steps back.

“Night, Hollis.”

“Night, Rowan.”

I walk away before I can change my mind.

As I drive home, I realize something that settles uncomfortably in my chest:

We’re not pretending anymore.

We’re actually doing this.

And the longer we make it work, the more I suspect the universe is simply giving us time—

right before everything falls apart.