Sleeping in an RV in the middle of February far away from home was not John DiCenza’s first choice. But Uncle Steve had offered his prized Georgetown (because nobody went camping in February, not even in ridiculously extravagant and expensive RV’s like Uncle Steve’s Georgetown), so that was where John went.

It wasn’t the creature comforts that he missed. He was an outdoorsy kinda guy; he liked hiking and camping and sleeping under the stars during the offseason. It was the job he missed. The people he worked with, the people he met because he covered the Hockey League’s New Jersey Palisades for both the Record and Reporter and HockeyNet. He also missed the Palisades.

But when you gain possession of documents that can put a final nail in the presidential term, you leave no matter what the cost.

John checked the clock on the tiny bedside table, realizing she was going to arrive in just over an hour, pending traffic.

She was Sophie Katz, a rising star of a political journalist, leaving print for television, and in search of a new story. That would be him, the documents, and his way back to Newark.

No more watching his back, no more looking over his shoulder for the damn shadows in the corner. Sophie would be his way out, his lifeline.

That was the most important part. Not the memories of a party hosted by their mutual mentor five years ago. Definitely not visions of a night filled with questions, darkened rooms and possibilities, where John learned what Sophie tasted like and never forgot. He was going to be the conduit that got her to a breaking story, nothing else. And then he was going to go back to his life and not look back again.

Dammit.

Which was the perfect cue for a phone call from a New York number. He didn’t have to glance at it long before he recognized it. The aforementioned mentor, of course. Last minute prep. “Hello?”

“You ready for this?”

“No, “he said as he sat up. “Not in the least. I’m stressed as hell and I have no idea what to expect.”

Ezra Baum groaned on the other end of the phone. “You’re kidding, right, John?”

“No, “he said as he sat up. “Not kidding.”

“All you need to know is that she’s top notch and she’ll listen.”

He wondered if Baum was trolling him; forcing him to focus on the matter at hand, as opposed to the other things that were running through his mind. But there were other things he’d discovered once he’d allowed himself to look, namely “She’s leaving print for television and wants a story.”

“Did whatever research you did tell you why?” Baum quipped back in his customary fashion. “Probably not, so I will. She can be a better political journalist on television than for that grey gardens nonsense she’s been twiddling her thumbs for. “

“I get it,” John replied. “I’ve watched that particular paper go downhill on the news side recently, and I’m not only saying it as someone who works for a paper based across the river. I also get the pressure to produce, especially the pressure of a first TV show stint. I guess I’m asking you, is she up to this?”

“Of course, she is. She’s one of mine.”

John snickered; of course, Baum had to get one of those in there.

“But seriously, she’ll treat this story, Paul and these files, the way they need to be treated.”

That was the most important part. Paul Nunzio and his over twenty years of notes on now President Crosby were the reason John found himself in the middle of nowhere, waiting for Sophie and his ticket home. He couldn’t screw this up, especially by acting on old feelings and memories. “Anything else?”

“For fuck’s sake, John. She doesn’t like assholes. Don’t be one. Now get your shit together.”

Ezra hung up the phone in his version of a huff, leaving John alone and still not prepared for the important conversations that would follow.

Sophie Katz parked the car in the parking lot and walked along the path of the RV park.

An RV park. February snow in Virginia Beach. What was her life?

She didn’t believe in signs and portents when this whole strange trip had started, but right now, locking her car and preparing to head towards the biggest story of her life, she realized she might have to start.

Back in September, she’d been a lowly international correspondent, on a DC desk for the New York Chronicle. Then one of her contacts at the Canadian Embassy, Adam Klein, not only put her in position to break the story of the President’s Blackmail notebook, but also put her in charge of his charity hockey project shortly thereafter.

Weird as it was, that that wasn’t all. In fact, on the same January day her editor returned a piece because it hadn’t placed enough emphasis on the sad childhood experienced by the Nazis who desecrated a DC temple, Sophie had received an official offer from LIB TV to join the network. It was so easy to say ‘screw you’ to the paper that didn’t feel like home anymore and jump to television.

Except she had no breaking story to take to the network. They were okay with all of it; after all, the executives told her, the gal who brought the blackmail notebook to the world would find a story in no time.

It took two months, during which she negotiated her exit from the paper and continued working on her newsletter. The story? It came from her mentor. According to Baum, this was from another of his mentees, a guy who apparently had a nose for stories.

Of course, she’d follow up on this story and investigate further.

Especially considering the lead would bring her right to the ‘Rogue Files!’ She could hardly contain herself. So many rumors, false leads, and discussions had arisen since December, to the point where quite a few people had decided the ‘Rogue Files’ did not exist. She had a strong sneaking suspicion that other journalists had ignored this lead because it seemed ‘sportsy’.

Morons.

The email she’d received told her that the RV was white, with a mass of maroon and other random streaks painted in waves along the side. The email also reminded her the guy inside waiting for her, stressed out and driven away from home and his job by death threats, was John DiCenza.

It took everything she had not to flash back to that series of moments five years before, where she fell into John DiCenza’s eyes and wanted to stay there. The real reason she didn’t want to watch HockeyNet after Empires games was the way this guy wore a suit. He was smart, insightful, and had touched her in a way that still haunted her dreams. And dear god she’d tried to do her best to forget him and that night, those moments. Unfortunately, that would be practically impossible when staying with him in the close quarters of an RV for the three days she needed to research the story.

She shoved herself back to reality, hefted her backpack up on her shoulders, put her hands in her pockets and headed out into the snow-covered trailer lot. Finally, she found a trailer with maroon streaks on the side and headed towards it. She looked closer, then removed the printed email from her pocket and looked up again.

Yep. That was it.

Satisfied, she headed towards the trailer and banged on the door. It opened quickly, fluidly.

“Don’t stand out there. Come in.”

She almost fainted at the sound of that voice; the distinctive mix of British and Jersey, tight consonants and loose vowels in a contradiction she hadn’t heard up close and personal in a long time.

She was a professional, and she shoved herself back to reality, focusing on those eyes- still dark and clear but hard with stress and possibly fear. But she didn’t have time to start meditating on the early shadows of beard darkening his face, which forced her to look upwards; she couldn’t concentrate on the strange mix of dirty blonde hair that brushed his shoulders. All she did was follow him and his tight ass inside.

He reached behind her to shut the door. “Damn thing catches in the wind, and the last bloody thing I need is you taking forever and letting all the cold air in. So come the bloody fuck on.”

She knew it was stress she was listening to, and maybe she’d have overlooked it another time, hot or not. But she was tired and had just driven from New York. She had no patience to spare, and anybody who’d survived a Baum mentorship would survive words she felt like saying. Yiddish, obscenity and contrast at the same time. “Fakakta,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

She gestured to her bag. “You fakakta schmuck, expecting me to climb a goddam mountain when carrying this?”

He snorted. “Life on your back, huh?”

“Mobile shell.” She gestured towards the trailer. “I like this.”

“Convenient,” he replied, his mouth kicking up just a little. “There when I needed it. It works. But hard in a random snowstorm.”

“Snow in southern Virginia in February, who’da thought, huh?” She shook her head and practically collapsed into the closest chair. She hoped it wasn’t the one he’d wanted.

“Definitely not me, and absolutely not here.” He looked out the window, then turned back towards her, rubbing his hands as if he’d been looking for something to do with them. He put them on the table across from her. “Closest I’d have expected to be was in Carolina, or Nashville,” he said naming a few places in the area that housed hockey teams. “Not here though.”

“Nobody expected the…penguin presidency?”

He laughed, and she found herself smiling despite her intense desire to yawn. “That, too. At least,” he said, “nobody expected it to last this long.”

She shrugged and smiled up at him. “I don’t know. It’s been a mess in general,” she said. “Hard to predict.”

“But,” he said,” the end is getting closer I hope.”

“It’s why I’m here, I think.” That was when she lost the battle against yawning. “Okay…”

He laughed, and it made her smile when all she wanted to do was close her eyes. “Name your poison. Tea or Coke?”

Sophie sighed. “First? Coffee. Second? Start at the beginning.”

“Five years ago?”

She laughed; she couldn’t help herself.

“Hey,” he replied, a gorgeous grin on his face. “Better to have it out in the open in whatever way, as opposed to pretending to be awkward about it the whole time.”

“Pretending to be awkward?” she quipped. “As opposed to actually being awkward.”

“Either way. But it’s…here and I figured I’d cut to the chase.”

“Smart,” she replied, relieved, relaxed, and not ashamed to be ogling him anymore. “I’m actually glad. I’m…and you’re…”

“Relieved, actually. I wanted…to bring it up and either not talk about it again or…make plans to talk about it later.”

She nodded, thinking about her reaction to seeing him. “So,” she said, folding her arms on the table in front of her. “What do you mean by ‘talk about it later?’”

“I’m saying,” he swallowed, “when this is over. I’m not opposed to exploring what is, as opposed to what was.”

“When you’re no longer my conduit to the second biggest story of my career, you mean?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean…if by the end of your story, you don’t want to throw me off a cliff or something.”

She burst out into laughter that might have possibly been inappropriate, but his eyes were twinkling, and she knew that was something she could handle. Would love to handle.

“Okay,” she said. “The hot caffeine first, then we get on with the story, now that we’ve got the awkwardness on the table. And,” she said, pausing as her heart started to slow down again, “we’ll leave that question on it, too.”

“We’ll leave that question on it, too.”

Within minutes of Sophie’s arrival, John had reverted to the tongue-tied stupidity he thought he’d lost years ago.

Apparently not.

Instead of trying to fight it or make it worse by trying to make it feel better, he defaulted to the hospitality drilled into him by both his parents.

“Tea or Coke?” Because truth to tell, he needed a cuppa. It was that time of the day when coffee would be too much, and Coke wouldn’t be enough. Tea would give him just enough energy to get him through the rest of this day, yet still leave him a chance at sleeping.

She sat at the table, tapping her fingers on the marble top, staring out the window. “Strongest tea you have. And nothing that tastes like toilet water.”

He snorted. She drank tea like his father; with distaste and the obvious sense it was a substitute. “Black. Yes. Caffeine. Yes.”

He pulled the kettle out and plugged it in. He pulled down two different mugs. The breakfast tea, flavored with a bit of mate, got spooned into two containers, which he closed and placed into the mugs. He took a breath, opened the fridge and took out the milk. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Black.”

He internally shuddered, but it was her tea, not his. It wasn’t his fault she wasn’t going to drink it properly.

“I can hear you shuddering from here. You asked, right? ”

“Fair enough,” he replied. “Fair enough.”

“How’d you get into hockey anyway?”

Good. She wanted to get to know him. Made sense as a source and for other reasons he didn’t quite want to think about. Either way, she deserved an answer. “Dad,” he replied. “Mum loved football, and when it was over for the year, Dad took over. Hockey. It was bloody expensive when we were living in the UK, but when we were back in Jersey, it was perfect. Mum didn’t mind paying for the football though.”

She nodded, and he wondered what she was thinking of. Where would she go next, what was she looking for ?

“And the Palisades are…?”

Aaaah. That was interesting. But he’d go with it. “Dad’s team. Why politics?”

She laughed, and he loved the sound of it. He also loved the way she caressed the mug between her palms. “Would you believe I thought I was going to be an international reporter?”

He snorted. Baum thought international news on its own was a waste of time, especially international news from a domestic angle. And any person Baum mentored would get that speech. The fact that Sophie would listen to that speech and ignore it made her even more fascinating in his book. “Really?”

She nodded. “I mean I was for a while; the international desk for the Chronicle. Mostly the Canadian embassy, which got really interesting when Scotland had its recent referendum. The Canadians had a fit. And then PM Lee started traveling, which was great. Baum hated it. Said I was wasting my time.”

He laughed. “Of course, he did. Anybody he mentors gets that speech.”

“You got it, too?”

She was surprised, but then why wouldn’t she be? “Yeah. I got it. And then reminded him I wasn’t covering politics, and the only international news I’d ever be interested in covering would be either the Olympics or the World Cup.”

The sound of her laugh was glorious. “That’s amazing. But yeah, after that edition of his speech, one of my contacts at the embassy delivered my biggest scoop and changed my career completely.”

“The notebook?”

She nodded, blushed. “Yeah. That. It was surreal.”

He laughed. Surreal was probably an understatement in relation to the way Sophie became the reporter who informed the known world that President Crosby’s legendary blackmail notebook was fact, not fiction. But because she probably didn’t want to analyze it then and there, he went for something easier, softer. “What did your family think…of either the change in your career path or the story in general?”

There was the first sign of discomfort. Not that he’d gone too far in asking, but that she wasn’t sure how to explain. The way she tapped her fingers on the table, as if she was searching for words she didn’t have. “They’re not…hmm. They live a happy but small life. Mom’s a florist, and Dad’s an accountant. They’re happy for what I do, proud of me. But they’re not news people, you know?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I do.” And whatever else he was going to say was cut off by the whine of the electric kettle. “Tea is served,” he said.

“Hope you have a lot of it.”

He laughed. “My mother raised me well enough to make sure my tea supply would last till a day after the world ended.”

The sound of her laugh made him weak. He wondered whether he’d survive all of it.

The tea big blond John gave Sophie tasted like shit, but the fact that he was sitting across from her made her smile feel permanent. Which was goddam unfortunate, considering he was her source for this story, regardless of what they were supposed to discuss once the story had run its course. “So,” she said, forcing herself back to task as she pulled a notebook and pen out of her bag, “Where do we begin? Where does this come from?”

“Or, in other words, how did so many people miss this? Or at least, how did they go down so many random roads?” He grinned. “The beginning is that before he was elected president, one of the most important things to Crosby were the New Jersey Palisades. He stuck to a box, away from the rabble. He was a fixture; didn’t miss a home game for years. The true fans had to explain his horrible reputation.” He paused and winked at her. “In fact, most people assumed he was an Empires fan…”

She snorted. She was an Empires fan. Baum was an Empires fan. But this wasn’t about the snarky snippy rivalry between hockey teams separated by the Hudson River. “Keep the editorializing out of it.”

“It’s good for context,” he replied. “Average American who doesn’t understand hockey won’t get this.”

“Just like they won’t get the random ‘Empires Suck!’ chants at Palisades ’s games.”

He laughed, and god she loved the sound of that laugh. It made her feel less bad about bantering with him, maybe flirting with him through insulting his hockey team.

“Good shot,” he finally said once he’d stopped laughing. “But yeah, Crosby’s got a box. Elite, posh, whatever you want to fucking call it, it is. Same box from when I was young. Same usher.”

She nodded, intent on either the story, the sound of his voice or both. She wasn’t sure, nor did she care.

“Man’s an institution, really. The usher, I mean. He’s the guy you look for, when you walk in, probably because he’s as familiar to the place as the wallpaper is.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything, not wanting to disturb him.

“But the thing is, he’s always split his time. His second periods have pretty much always been with the VIP crowd, providing polite quiet service to the VIPs in the boxes. And out with the fans making himself known during the first and the third. Fifteen years, this happens as far as I can tell.”

He shifted in his seat, as if this was going to get difficult.

“Right around the time the Pals moved to the new building, they make his VIP duty exclusively to Crosby. That happens for…about 5 years? Then he gets moved to Crosby full time. They take him from the public and make him serve Crosby. For ten fucking years, why the bloody fuck I have no idea, but yeah. That’s what they do.”

“That’s…”

“Yep.” He nodded, and the anger in his eyes told her that decision still burned him, not just for journalism reasons, but for hockey reasons. For personal reasons.

“One of the most confusing decisions the Pals management have made. Ever. And that includes that mountainous mascot. Anyway, they take the usher out of circulation completely. Nobody hears from him.”

“For how long?”

“Ten. Fucking years. Till the last Cup, possibly?”

“Okay.” She tried to calculate when the Palisades last championship was. Twelve years ago? Thirteen? Well before Crosby decided that he wanted to get involved in politics. But there was something going on then. “Now what?”

“Well then he’s back. Still working for Crosby’s box but more…out in public. Like they realize they’ve lost a good thing and they know it. But there’s something about him now…”

Something about him. Scared? Angry? Afraid. “What do you mean? Like…”

“He’s more careful, more suspicious. He’s being watched. But it’s one of those things y’only notice if you knew him before, right?” She nodded, sitting at the edge of her seat, and against every bit of will she possessed, let herself get caught up in the sound of his voice.

“Which means he’s worried. Come to find out he was being watched.”

She gasped, worried for this usher, this man she didn’t know, who’d probably hate her based on the name of her favorite team. “Why? What?”

John sighed, and she watched helplessly as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Anybody who’s been listening to anything recently has discovered that Crosby’s a snitch, a sneak, and a worthless piece of garbage. Doesn’t treat people like they’re supposed to be treated. So, you have this usher, this institution, who’s now watching his back and suspicious. Which says to me that he’s been threatened.”

“What happened?”

He looked up at her, his eyes enveloping her like a woolen blanket. “Nothing really for a few years. But that’s where part two happens.”

She nodded, not sure where he was going. “Okay. We have the usher who was being threatened and now who isn’t. Or…might be now? What next?”

“This,” he said, “is kinda where I came in. See all of this would have been nothing except the penguin left his box, got elected and shit started happening. Including the extended moment where I ran afoul of the ‘stick to sports assholes.’”

“Wait, what? How the hell did that happen?”

He rolled his eyes and she understood. “How does it happen these days? A few Empires bloggers and some STV hosts spoke their mind on political issues. Specifically, about some of the garbage that Crosby and his administration’s been peddling. Education, a whole bunch of things. Anyway, there was a social media backlash. And I didn’t start it, wasn’t at the center of it, but because I don’t have the worry the lot of ‘em do, yeah? I’m a white, straight, cis, Christian dude. I’m the son and great-grandson of immigrants, but I have so much privilege. I’m a Pals fan and I was taught better than to sit down and stay neutral.”

“What did you do, then?”

“What would anybody do in that situation? Elevated, deflected conversation. Got a lot of nonsense, but none of it was anything close to what any of them got. A lot of people stopped talking when I opened my mouth. Which surprised me at first, but again,” He gestured widely in a way that was meant to encompass his whole body. “White dude."

Sophie stared at him then remembered she was supposed to be researching and not staring. So, she clicked her pen, settling it once again in her hand. “You made yourself a target. Stuff calmed down, people yelled but they remembered you. Now what?”

She watched him cover his tea mug with both hands, watch his eyes dart away from her. “Well, that’s where the story begins. We’ve got two things that are unrelated but connect everything you need to know.”

She nodded. “Right. This is the context for the files, for the story behind them?" She paused, covering her mouth with a hand, stopping he yawn that wanted out. “Right? Sorry.”

He nodded back. “It’s fine. I get it.” She watched the light catch his hair. “Yeah. I know. It’s been difficult…partially because the story isn’t fully mine, but entirely mine at the same time.”

She smiled. “I get that. There’s been a LOT of that, starting with the blackmail notebook.”

“That was you, right? Of course, it was.”

“I broke it, but when the papers were needed, I turned it over to the appropriate authorities. Wasn’t mine to keep, you know?”

He nodded; she could see the weight of knowledge and secrets in his eyes. “Yeah. I do.”

He may have said something else, but she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that his voice had started to envelop her, first up close, and then from far away. Then there was silence, until she realized she was sitting with her face on the table, her empty teacup just out of reach.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed. “That wasn’t nice.”

He shook it off. “It’s fine. More importantly, I have two bedrooms in this ridiculous monstrosity. One has blackout curtains and a gorgeous bed. The other has, from what I hear, slightly comfortable bunk beds.”

“The blackout curtains, please,” she said, without thinking about it further.

He nodded. “The bedroom is this way.” He gestured towards the back of the RV, and she headed towards the closed door that had to be the bedroom in question.

“Dinner will be ready by the time you wake up,” he said. But she barely heard him; she hadn’t realized how tired she was until she closed her eyes, wrapped up in his scent. Oblivion came, darkness stepped through her brain, carrying images of a tall guy with dirty blonde hair and an accent she couldn’t possibly duplicate.

The small trailer bedroom looked different in the dark, secrets just beyond her grasp. And way too many feelings surrounded her stomach. He was her conduit to this story. She needed to ignore those feelings and get down to business.

She stretched out her arms and headed into the small, attached bathroom to splash cold water on her face. Glad she didn’t have to look at herself in the mirror. No makeup, which meant the acne-prone skin and dark circles that made her look like a perpetual teenager would greet her.

She shook her head, hoping her hair would behave to some degree. She was off camera, but she wanted to make a non-shitty impression. She was professional and she…

“Lasagna?” His voice came through the bedroom door. “That work?”

She opened the door, and she stared at him. “You cook?”

He laughed. “Yes. I do. I like to eat, so,” he shrugged. “I cook. I also have questions.”

“Fair enough,” she replied. “I mean you need to trust me, right?”

He nodded. “I do.” And then he gestured to the table. “I figure you can tell me about the Blue Chorus.”

She swallowed. “What?”

He smiled back at her. “Over dinner, you tell me the story of the Blue Chorus. I figure it’s you.”

He’d caught her off guard. Which was expected. But he was a reporter, too; knew his sources and how to work them. How to read the news, and how to find evidence of the skeletons in the closet.

“So,” she said as she bit into a piece of the garlic bread. “This is kinda amazing, actually.”

He nodded; this was all his father’s recipe, his father’s family’s contribution to his childhood. “Thank you. Glad you like it.”

“So, chorus?”

He nodded. “Yeah. There’s always the story, right? Like there’s a difference between knowing the what, and what I find more interesting. Which is knowing the how.” He also was way too interested in what made her tick.

“As I told you, I was doing the international desk at the paper, and then suddenly I got a scoop and ended up on the national politics side. Suddenly my career was completely different, and I needed a way to process it. Like, Baum was thrilled, my parents and some of my friends were confused, and I didn’t know which end was up.”

He knew that feeling, being upside down and confused, all too well. It had been his companion for that past few months. That and the box sitting at the top of his closet. “I get the whole upside-down thing. But why a newsletter? What’s the link there?”

She shook her head and her eyes brightened. “It was the strangest thing, really. I got this cool newsletter about music, and it turned out the guy behind it was also in politics. And I thought what the hell. I could do my own, highlighting the things that made the transition to national politics easier; the things that stood out to me. And I thought that maybe other people might like it, too. But, I kept it separate because I didn’t want people to read the newsletter or think about the things in it because I was writing it. Or think worse about them or me. Anyway, when I ended up taking over Hockey for Hope…”

He’d wanted to learn more about that program, and she oversaw it? Or at least held it temporarily? He’d done some research on it: former pros, and any interested experienced parties playing exhibition hockey for rotating charity causes. And he thought it was amazing. He’d even pondered watching a few games when he was up to cover the Pals/Colonials home series and turning them into a feature, contributing his voice for the cause if they wanted. But he needed to keep it cool, or at least try to. “That was interesting. Is interesting. Adam Klein, former team Canada and Max…”

“Yes,” she said, as if she’d told the story way too many times before, and he had failed to keep his fascination to himself. “They were stuck; Klein had to leave the city and Max was in hiding, so they asked me.”

He sat back against the bench, smiled up at her. “Really. What? Why? ”

She took another bite of the lasagna and then stared up at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He shook his head. “Nope. I’ve been following things generally, but I don’t know the specifics. To be quite honest, I don’t have time. I…”

The sudden cracking sound broke the silence of the RV, and he put his arm around her. “Down,” he yelled as he fell to the ground, cushioning her around him. She was smaller, tight, nervous under his hold.

They were silent, her breath against his neck. In the stillness, there was nothing but each other.

Don’t go there.

But he couldn’t help himself. She was gorgeous, insightful and brilliant.

Finally, he’d relaxed; enough time had passed for him to be reassured. “Okay,” he said.

She got up with him, carefully moving to the darkened front window of the RV, only to see a pile of snow and a large tree branch. He was still tied in knots though.

“You’re getting threats?”

It felt weird to admit, but it was happening. “Yeah,” he said, staring out at the window, anywhere but at her. “It’s why I’m here.”

He turned back to the lasagna, half wondering if he should have kept it in the over or…

“I’m hungry enough to eat it cold,” she told him, stopping his racing thoughts.

“I hope you like it,” he managed, suddenly tongue tied again.

“So, what happened? You were telling me?”

He shoved himself back to reality; there was a story to tell. “Pals’ game, they lost. I was talking to a few of the players, getting postgame stuff. And as I was leaving the room, heading to the train, he stops me.”

“He…?”

“Paul Nunzio. The man, the myth.” He shook his head, remembering that not everybody knew Paul, his heart, his voice and his manner. Not everybody had watched Paul interact with the world for over twenty years. “The Pals longest serving usher, the guy who greets everybody. Everybody. Used to be the guy who greeted everybody as they came into the old barn. In the new one, he just meanders around, saying hi to those who know him.”

“Ooooh, right. The usher guy you told me about earlier. You didn’t mention his name though.”

He shook his head, grabbed his glass of water. “Right. So, we have Paul Nunzio, and my stick to sports issue. Now I’ll tell you why, how even, they’re…we’re connected.” He took a swallow and stood. “Be right back.”

John couldn’t go very far; but as she scarfed down her lasagna, Sophie wondered what he could be bringing her. What could he have in his possession that would explain why he was the one Nunzio would trust with these files? She found the dude hot, for sure, and intellectually fascinating and stimulating in a way she wouldn’t permit herself to examine until the proverbial later.

“Alright,” he said, the British crackling in his tones. “Here we go.”

She looked up and saw him, standing just off to the side of the table, cradling what looked like a binder. He stood there for a minute as he watched him, holding the binder closely before carefully placing it on the table in front of her.

“The first time I met Paul Nunzio, I was about 8 years old,” he began, as he opened the binder. “He bought me a hot dog when I got lost, kept me company until my father came to get me. Mum had me write him a thank you note. We were…pen pals of a sort. When we went back to England, that became a real thing; I wrote him, and he wrote me back, telling me about the games, things I’d missed. What the snow was like in New Jersey.” He smiled, and the world brightened. “This is a collection of his letters. I kept all of them.”

She pushed away the plate, even though it was half full, to get to the binder. Reading the years of correspondence would give her the context, would teach her about this man, this Nunzio guy. Or at least his connection to John DiCenza. This walking conundrum who held her attention in a way he shouldn’t.

The letters were painstakingly neat, the handwriting correct, as if each word was of the utmost importance. Sloped script on yellowing paper. There were newspaper articles about championships, an autograph and a smile. Pictures of a snowy backyard, talk of family and what the air in Newark smelled like. And those two separate puzzle pieces, the principled hockey reporter and the grandfatherly usher were suddenly connected in a story she was enjoying. “What happened after you got on the beat, or how did you get your job?”

“I didn’t know what I wanted. I ended up going to university and falling in love with the newspaper. But not politics, not the kind of knock down drag out drama that I found everywhere else. I wanted my politics, but I didn’t want my job to be politics, right?”

She nodded. “You wanted to be informed, but you didn’t want to have to live with it.”

“Right. That’s when I started writing sports. I could live with that drama. Hell, that sort of drama, knock down drag out rivalry discussion was in my blood. Still is in my blood. Pals. Other sports where it felt like life or death, though it isn’t. I could live with that. When it became politics, when politics became about people, I could live with that too, y’know?”

She smiled. “Politics was policy, now policy is about who you can harm the most. Separating, division…”

“The idea that people want to legislate others’ humanity is absolutely bloody fucking stupid at bare minimum. Who people love, where they worship…their bare humanity is not ever and should not be ever in question. Ever. Black lives matter, separation of church and state, punch all the Nazis, no selective immigration bans. Because fuck if my Mum wasn’t the…”

She smiled. All his energy was about to explode all over her, and she wasn’t the only one. “Okay. I get it. I absolutely get it. You have to stand up. Hell. I mean what happened at that temple in DC—it killed me. It broke my heart. So many instances of hate crimes, so many more than years before. And the thing is we know it’s always been there, sitting below the surface. And we’re just seeing more of it because these people think it’s okay.”

“It’s awful.” He sighed. “And because I felt so strongly, like I told you, when it came for me to open my mouth, I didn’t hesitate. Waded right into the fray, and I was so annoyed about what happened that I wrote an article about how stupid it was to force people to ‘stick to sports’ when so much was at stake. When, as we said, politics was people, right?” He reached over her shoulder, flipping the page in the binder. “I wrote that article, and he, Nunzio, sent it back to me.”

She was confused at first; he’d sent it back as if I was a letter he didn’t want or? “Um…”

He smiled, rested an arm on her shoulder, and pointed to the transparent plastic sheet. “Here,” he said. “He sent it to me with this letter.”

She nodded, focused in on the scrawl on the newspaper and on the white page above it. “I’m so proud of you,” she read, the loopy scrawl giving her a portrait of a moment in time.

“You write about our boys with such panache and strength. And those convictions you have make me proud. I remember that hot dog, I remember your dad, and I remember you as a kid. I’m so proud to know the man you’ve become.”

She blew out a breath and stared up at him. “Wow.”

He nodded, his hair brushing against her cheek. “Yeah. That was a moment. I stood up because so many couldn’t. And then I wrote the article. And again, we get back to the privilege conversation. I have it, so many don’t. So, I stood up. And Empire bloggers, people I knew from the women’s team, the Pixie family, so many people stood up for me and the way I stood up for everybody who’d put themselves on the line for their beliefs. Stick to sports my arse. My paper stood up for me, which was…”

She looked up at him, met those green eyes of his. “Unexpected?”

He nodded. “Papers are cutting back on sports coverage, the by-subscription news blogs are filling that gap, but sportswriters all over are losing their jobs. People are scrambling. I was worried. Didn’t think they’d stick up for a hockey beat guy, you know?”

She knew all too well; she’d just left a paper that didn’t stand up for its people. Or, well, it did, just demonstrated how fickle their desire to have reporters report the truth. “Yeah. So…”

He shrugged. “They did, I’m still here and,” He paused, gesturing widely again, “here.”

Sophie nodded, then desperately attempted to hold back the yawn that wanted to explode out of her. She had so much work to do, so much information to digest; and yet the yawn was more powerful than her will to stay awake.

“How long do you have?”

She rubbed her eyes and thought about it. “Three days. Except,” she glanced at her watch and saw the time. What day was it even? “Today’s still Monday, right?”

“Skin of the teeth, but yeah.” He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “We…you…I’m going to bed. You might want to as well?”

She nodded gratefully.

“Take the bed; you’re still exhausted. And pick a bathroom; you’re fine either way.”

The word tired seemed an understatement when applying it to him. His phrases slid sideways on his tongue and his eyes lost the will to focus. “Thank you,” she said. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s no problem.” Hopefully, he understood ‘this’ meant hosting and feeding her, not just giving her the material.

She gave him as much of a smile as she had the energy to. “Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sophie.”

The sound of his voice saying her name gave her enough warmth for the rest of the night, and probably into next year. But she wouldn’t dwell on that, or dream of him.