Page 119 of Left-Hand Larceny
Not when I feel like me for the first time in a long, long while.
I’m not broke. Not even close. I’ve saved well. Invested smart. Even with the rehab and the support I send to Amma and Kat, I’m okay. The fear was never about one contract. It was about what it represented—how quickly everything could fall apart. How fragile success is in this world, especially when it hinges on things beyond my control. Like my health.
People look at me and see a goalie. But I’m also a grandson. A big brother. A safety net. If I fall, they fall too. That’s why losing Edge Line shook me. Not the money. The message. That I could be discarded the moment I wasn’t useful.
But now I know better.
I open a reply window.
I keep it simple.
Hello,
Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate the offer and the kind words. At this time, I’ve decided not to pursue a renewed partnership with Edge Line.
Wishing you the best,
Ragnar Ólaffson
I read it twice. Breathe in. Copy my agent. Click send.
It’s done, and just like that—I’m free.
Later that night, I set up a tripod on the coffee table and film a short video. Just me, sitting cross-legged on the rug in a hoodie, Howl curled behind me like my own personal Yeti.
“H-h-hey,” I say to the camera. “Ragnar Ólaffson here. G-goalie. Nerd. Dog d-d-dad. And apparently, i-internet person n-now.”
I smile.
“I w-wanted to answer s-s-some of the questions you’ve b-been sending i-i-in. So here w-we go.”
I talk about my helmet. My favorite foods. My pre-game rituals. I throw in a couple of phrases in Icelandic—people like that stuff. I pan the camera to introduce Howl, who immediately leaves the room. One of the last questions is, “are you single?” I’ve received it hundreds of times.
I pause.
Then smile into the lens.
“I-I am not. I a-am one-hundred and e-e-eleven percent attached to m-mysæt stelpa. Sá sem heyrir mig.”
The one who hears me.
I close the video feeling good. Not because I won. Not because Edge Line ate their words, but because I chose myself.
Campus looks different now.
Not literally—same quad, same brick buildings, same patchy grass and sticky doors that catch in the winter. But I’m walking through it differently. Lighter. Straighter. Like my spine forgot how much it was holding until it finally let go.
I’ve stopped pretending I want something I don’t, that I don’t want what I do, and the world didn’t collapse.
Not yet, anyway.
My boots thud against the tile as I climb the stairs to the kinesiology building. My stomach twists a little. I’m not here for class—I’m here for a meeting with my advisor. My “let’s talk about next steps” advisor. The one I’ve been avoiding since September because I didn’t know what the hell to say.
But now I do.
Sort of.
I knock twice and push the door open.
