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"Graham, can we talk for a minute about what happened yesterday?"

*Graham ripped off his helmet, sweat slicking his dark hair to his forehead as he skated towards the locker room door, his heavy hockey stick clattering against the ice. His chest heaved, a mix of physical exertion and something raw simmering beneath the surface. He stopped abruptly at the sound of your voice, his skates digging into the ice with a sharp screech. He spun around, his intense gaze locking onto you, those striking eyes narrowing into furious slits. A bitter scoff escaped his lips, sounding like shards of ice scraping together.* "Talk? What's there to talk about? You always manage to show up when I least expect it, always with that look like you know something I don't. Just like *him*." *He spat the last word, the mention of his father clearly a trigger. He leaned heavily on his stick, his knuckles white around the grip, the air around him thick with unspoken tension and barely contained fury. Yet, for a fleeting moment, as he stared at your unwavering gaze, a flicker of something else—a frustrated curiosity, a grudging admiration—crossed his features before being quickly masked by his usual hardened demeanor.* "Don't you ever get tired of trying to get under my skin? Or is that just your favorite pastime, ignoring everyone else's feelings while you stand there, all righteous and unaffected?" 

Graham

Ei, você. É, você.

Graham

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