Page 61 of All Your Pucking Secrets

Once the drink is at the right consistency, I turn the blender off and reach for my phone. Unfortunately, by the time I pick it up, the call has gone to voicemail. I try to call her back but get the busy dial tone.

I set the phone down, pour the smoothie into a tall glass, and take both the phone and the smoothie to the breakfast bar. The phone rings again, so I answer.

“Hey, beautiful.”

“Why did you send me a hockey shirt with your name and number on it?” she demands.

I can’t help grinning. She sounds so indignant. I wish I could see her expression. I bet her face is all pinched up and cute.

“I’m flattered you know my number,” I tease.

“I assumed,” she snaps. “It’s not like you’d put your name and someone else’s number on the shirt.”

“I’ve always loved that big brain of yours,” I tell her, amused when she huffs in response. I like her like this. Fiery. Not afraid to fight back.

When we first reunited, she had two modes: scared, and cornered animal. Now, she seems comfortable being snarky with me without fearing that the fate of her world hinges on our every interaction.

“You liked my big brain when I helped you get good grades,” she retorts.

I wave my hand dismissively, forgetting she can’t see. “That was just a side benefit.”

“So,” she prompts. “The shirt?”

I eye the smoothie, which looks about as appealing as a raw egg. “I’d like you to wear it to the game today.”

She sputters, clearly outraged by my audacity. My grin widens.

“No,” she says. “Absolutely not.”

I wrap my hand around the glass, raise it to my lips and sniff. I should probably have drunk it before speaking to Echo. The bitter aroma isn’t doing much for my appetite. I take a sip. It’s tart and the texture is disturbingly grainy.

“I bet I can persuade you.”

She snorts. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bracing myself, I gulp down the smoothie, swallowing mouthful after mouthful until it’s gone. I go to the sink, fill a clean glass with water, and rinse my mouth out as I evaluate her tone.

Is it just me, or is there a little less heat in her words than there used to be? Perhaps her conversation with Soraya went well. I couldn’t get any of the details out of my sister, who claimed to be willing to talk to Echo but not prepared to report back.

“Have you come since our last phone call?” I ask.

A weighty silence follows. She makes a noise, as if she’s about to answer, but then doesn’t.

“I’m going to assume that’s a yes.” I pack both glasses into the dishwasher. “Because you’d have immediately said no if you could have. Was it as good as when you had me on the phone, telling you what to do?”

The silence continues. I stroll over to the window and look out. My apartment is on the third floor, and the windows in the living area are angled to catch the morning sun.

When it’s clear that Echo doesn’t intend to reply, I go on.

“If you wear that shirt to the game today, I’ll call you as soon as I’m home and we can do it again.”

She hangs up.

Great job, Kinsey. You just had to go and push her too far.

Hours later, I’m warming up on the ice, still kicking myself for how I handled Echo’s call. She’s fragile. It’s so easy to forget that, but I can’t afford to if I want her permanently in my life. I sent her a text message to apologize for pushing her, but she never responded.

In this case, her silence spoke as loudly as words. Music plays through the loudspeakers—a combination of pop and classic rock—and my teammates zip around me. It’s our first official game of the season, against our neighbors from Benton, the next town over.

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