Page 117 of Left-Hand Larceny
Howl thumps his tail and stares at me with the trusting intensity of someone who’d absolutely follow me into a blizzard for a slice of cheese and then trade me away for a chicken nugget.
I lean down, scratching behind his ears. “What do you think, buddy? Mind sharing your daddy?”
Howl lets out a happy little huff and rolls onto his back, paws flailing in what can only be described as unfiltered joy.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Ragnar watches us with soft eyes and something that looks suspiciously like forever on his face.
And this time, it doesn’t scare me.
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The email comes in while I’m unlacing my skates.
Subject line:Updated Sponsorship Terms - Edge Line Full Reinstatement Offer.
I stare at it for a minute before I open it.
It’s professional. Crisp. Polished. Probably filtered through two marketing assistants and three PR execs before it hit my inbox. They would be happy to welcome me back. And the numbers they’re offering are astronomical. I could probably buy Kat a pony farm with that kind of capital.
My agent texts right after.
Angelo:
Take your time, but this is a good sign. They want you back and are willing to offer buttloads for it. Full reinstatement. I bet we could push them higher. Let me know your questions, I never heard from you before, and I’ll schedule a call.
I close the phone. Let it rest on the bench beside me like it might burn a hole through the wood.
I pull my foot out of the second skate and sit there in my compression top, sweat drying under my collar, chest tight in a way that’s not from cardio. This is what I wanted.
Isn’t it?
I asked Sadie to help me be more… marketable. That was the word. She hated it. So did I. But it felt like survival at the time. Now I don’t know what it feels like. Because the version of me that got dropped wasn’t broken. He was simply not performing because he was in recovery.
The version they want now—the one they’re ready to bring back? This isn’t the original Ragnar. Sadie helped mold me from the ground up. From long nights laughing over crossword clues. Letting her loop her scarf around my neck and lead me to a bar booth and a part of myself I didn’t know could exist off the ice.
I thought I needed to learn to fake it, but it’s not fake. It’s me. It’s me with her.
It’s me because of her.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and rest my head in my hands. It would be easy to say yes. The numbers are good. The money’s solid. It’s a recognition of everything I’ve fought to get back. Afokkyou to the people who wrote me off because, let’s be real, I talk funny. But there’s this voice in my chest—quiet, steady—that keeps asking: Is this really what you want?
Or are you just afraid of saying no?
Tristan’s in the media room when I find her. Headphones around her neck, two phones on the table, laptop open to a spreadsheet that makes my eyes hurt. She looks up when I knock.
“Please tell me you’re here to rescue me,” she says. “Vic bailed, and I’ve been trying to schedule five interviews, two campaigns, and one podcast appearance. For Spags.”
By bailed, she means Vic had a meeting with management, but I feel her pain.
I lift a brow. “He a-agreed to a p-p-podcast?”
“He doesn’t know yet.”
I grin.
“You’re t-t-terrifying.”
