Page 17 of Burning Hearts
Someone by the sponsor wall yelled, “#TeamBrew!”
My face stayed completely still.
The optics of me helping my competition weren’t lost on me. A million dollars were at stake here, and my co-investors at Brickyard Brewery might not appreciate me assisting Signal House.
“Strap,” I said into the air, and a volunteer quickly placed a tie-down in my hand.
I fed it through the corner grommet, braced my foot, and leaned. The canopy made a sound.
Wyatt shouldered in, badge on his belt, eyes on the physics to see how he could help. No takeover, no speech. He clocked the cord run, the bags, the lane, and gave me the pro nod that meansclean work; I saw it.
He pivoted to the volunteer proudly taping a perfect line. “Good spacing. Finish that wall; check the curb cut again.”
The extension cord did one last lazy loop toward a stroller wheel. I scooped it up, ran it along the planter, and planted a cone at the worst temptation point out of habit. Not my job, technically. Recusal is cleaner if I never touch anything, but safety is even cleaner.
“Thank you,” Ellis said, close enough to be heard over the band testing a peach-bright chord, far enough away to be professional about it.
I didn’t look at him, I looked at his hands. Flat on the frame, steady without white-knuckling. He didn’t yell; he counted. His crew waited for the count as if it had always been there.
Competence, I told myself.
That was the charge. Anyone can feel the pull of a room obeying the right voice.
That’s all this was.
My pulse had other opinions.
“We’re good,” Ellis said to me, to the air, to his headset.
He lifted both palms and the canopy stayed. The straps agreed. The wind threw one more shoulder at the square and lost the battle; the Commons went back to pretending nothing had happened.
Beau tipped his chin toward us, with his B-roll acquired and secured.
“For viewers at home,” he said, smooth as butter, “this is a live demonstration of why we love sandbags and do not stake into historic brick. Say it along with me: we respect the Commons.”
A volunteer with a green lanyard lifted a roll of black tape like a toast. “How many bags per leg?”
“One to stand,” I said. “Two if it gets flirty.”
He snorted and I kept moving.
Adrenaline wore off like a bruise. I rubbed my palm on my pant leg to get rid of dust that wasn’t there and told myself to check our own setup down the block. There’d be something to count, something to lift, something to fix that didn’t involve noticing how Ellis adjusted a mic stand with a two-finger touch that was all confidence, zero performance.
“You good?” Wyatt said at my elbow without looking.
“Always,” I said.
He made a noise that meantliarin Deputy. “Want me to log a courtesy note to Signal? Or let the town run the thank-you economy?”
“Let the town,” I said. “It’s cleaner.”
Beau’s cameraman swung wide; Beau gave a sign-off I didn’t fully catch and a wink I did. The square reset to its default—self-impressed, and deservedly so. Pins traded lapels. A dog wagged at everyone with a badge.
I should’ve kept walking. Instead, I looked back once. Ellis had stepped two paces from the canopy and was scanning the lane exactly how I scan. Exits, then pinch points, then travel of crowd. He caught me looking and didn’t bail fast enough. Not a smile, or even its outline. Just the acknowledgment that we’d both done the sensible thing without making a production of it.
Competence, I told myself again.
The thought didn’t end. It persisted and made me wonder, briefly and against my will, what his voice sounded like in a quiet hallway, pretending we were talking about work.
