Page 98 of Wicked Serve

“You should get one,” Penny says. “I didn’t think I’d be into it, but I love mine.” She lifts her sleeve, showing off the small tattoo on her wrist. It’s a phrase written in a language I don’t recognize. “It’s a Lord of the Rings thing. Cooper has the same one.”

“You definitely should,” he says, grinning. “You can show off some ink when you get to your new locker room next season.”

I force a laugh. “Maybe.”

“Can confirm it would be hot,” Isabelle says, turning on a Sabrina Carpenter song.

I’m already thinking about when her tattoo is healed and I’ll get to lick it, so that checks out. I cut off that train of thought before it can get too far away from the station. We’re going to be here for a few hours; the last thing I need is to spend half of it with a boner.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, intending to check my email, but pause when I see a string of new voice mails. I work my jaw.

I should ignore them. Dad, thank fuck, hasn’t made concrete plans to see me yet. He keeps talking about it, but the longer it’s just talk, the greater the chance it won’t come to fruition. He said the same thing last spring, even went so far as to buy me a plane ticket to Berlin for a hockey expo, but I didn’t show, and he didn’t force the issue.

I wish I could be excited by the prospect of him coming to see me play. He used to attend as many of my games as he could, in between his own. Sometimes that was a good thing—I can still hear the praise in my mind like a siren song—and sometimes it led to me getting chewed out and punished. But he wouldn’t just be here to watch me play hockey, and I can’t help the protective feelings that rise up at the thought of him anywhere near Mom and our lives now. Not to mention Isabelle.

I hover my thumb over the delete button on the first voice mail. Before I can make myself press it, though, my phone lights up with a text from Cricket.

“You okay?” Isabelle asks.

I run my hand over her hair quickly, careful not to jostle her. “Yeah. I just need to make a quick call.”

She purses her lips, no doubt putting two and two together. “Is it...”

“No. Just Cricket.”

She relaxes. “Tell her we need to find a time to meet up.”

I slip around the corner of the building. It’s snowing lightly, just a coating that won’t stick, but for whatever reason, the sight of it pricks me with nostalgia. It’s stupid; obviously it snows in a lot of the world, including New York, my actual home, but for a brief moment, I’m seven again, walking the few short blocks from school to my apartment building. I used to have this pair of red leather gloves that I liked because they reminded me of what I wore for hockey. I doubt Dad kept them after we left.

“Ooh, a phone call. I feel so special.”

Cricket texted me in extremely grammatically incorrect Russian, so I’m not surprised to hear her greet me in the language. I cross my legs, leaning against the building.

“Your accent isn’t half bad,” I reply in Russian.

“I’m trying!”

“Your grammar needs help, though.”

“Eh. Grammar is overrated anyway. Everything okay?”

“He wants to visit.”

“Motherfucker.”

I bark out a laugh. “When did you start learning the curses?”

“The curses are the fun part,” she says, switching to English. “Did he say when?”

“No. He brought it up for the first time a few weeks ago.” Before she can bring up New Year’s, I add, “I think he’s serious, though. He’s still trying to make a case for his team.”

“Tell him you won’t see him.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that would stop him.”

“Tell McKee not to sell him a ticket.”

“He’d just come to an away game.”

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