Page 34 of Daydream

When I’m finally home, Henry hovers close behind me as I rummage around in my clutch for my keys. When I finally find them, unlock the door, and take a step inside, he doesn’t move. “Are you not coming in?”

He shakes his head. “I’m being a gentleman.”

“Do you not want to be a gentleman inside?”

“I want to, but you should send the guy home at the end of a first date.”

“A dateandadvice. I’m getting the full Henry Turner treatment tonight.”

Henry looks like he’s about to say something but stops himself. “Not quite.”

He leans forward and my heart stops. His lips press against my cheek gently, and I’m not confident I’m breathing fully. He moves back, the hot sear still present on my skin. “Good night, Halle.”

“Good night,” I say as he walks away, but it once again comes out as a whisper.

When he’s climbed back into the car and driven off, I lock the door behind me and take a look at the drawing of me propped against a photo frame in the hallway as I pass it.

After getting ready for bed, I climb under the duvet with my laptop. WithThe Great British Baking Showplaying on my TV, I create a new chapter and start typing.

Chapter ElevenHENRY

WHEN THE FIRST THINGI saw this morning was Lola in my kitchen wearing a hockey jersey inside out, I thought it was a bad omen.

I’ve never understood athletes and sports fans with their superstitions. Maybe it’s because I was raised by people who don’t believe in them. I’ve always raised an eyebrow at the team’s various habits: specific underwear, only certain playlists, the need to drive a precise way to the rink, to name a few.

But when Lola stood in front of me pouring coffee into two mugs, not even aware I was at the bottom of the stairs, I thought,Oh fuck. We’re going to lose today.

The thought made me want to be sick, and I realized quite how nervous I’d been pretending I wasn’t for our first game of the season. Hearing the words “Captain Debut” had quickly become my biggest pet peeve in the run-up to this game, but it was the moment I thought we were going to lose that I realized how responsible I feel for the success of this team.

That feeling doesn’t go away for one second of the day. I’m so hyperaware it makes me nauseous. We smash it, but the need to throw up only very slightly subsides. I expect a switch to flick on,to feel like I can do this, to become different somehow as I step off the ice with my teammates to celebrate in our locker room together, but I don’t.

I think about tomorrow, and next week, and the week after. I think about the shots we missed and… I think about everything far too much and it’s like I’m sinking beneath my own worries.

Nobody else is affected.

Nobody else is sinking.

Nobody else will understand because we still won, and for now, that’s all that matters.

I match their energy to their faces and smile, mirroring back exactly what they give me. I tell them we can do this again, and again, and again. I don’t want to become one of those superstitious people, but the last thing I’m going to do before I go to sleep is tell Lola to pour her morning coffee with her jersey inside out.

WHY IS IT ALWAYS WHENI need some privacy that nobody wants to leave me alone?

Faulkner is nowhere to be found when I approach his office, so I let myself in and close the door behind me, pulling up Nate’s name on my phone.

“Hey, bud. Congrats on another win!” he says as soon as he answers. “I’m driving. Can you hear me properly?”

“Have you always saidbudor has it only been since you moved to Vancouver? I can hear you.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. “I honestly don’t know. I can’t remember… anyway. What’s up?”

“How did you do it?”

“Do what, Hen?”

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I just know that despite the fact we won yesterday and today, I still feel like there’s so much moreI should have done or need to do. Did I support the team enough? Did I answer questions well enough? How did I perform in comparison to last year? And how the hell am I going to keep it all together to do this repeatedly. How do I not fail my friends?

Before I can find a way to articulate that to Nate the office door opens and Faulkner walks in eating a muffin, looking somewhere between surprised and disgusted to find me in his office. “Doesn’t matter, got to go,” I say quickly, ending the call.

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