Page 13 of Left-Hand Larceny

“That’s our little miracle worker,” Mom smiles at me. “We are so proud of you, Sadie Jones. You’re everything we could have asked for.”

“Next time Bill and I grab lunch after our tee-time, I’m going to tell him he owes me.” Dad laughs. “After all, we did send him the trainer that got his star goalie back up and running.”

I didn’t. I want to protest, but it’s mostly a gut reaction. I am damn proud of the work Rags and I have accomplished. I didn’t work miracles, though. An injury like Rags’ takes time to heal. For a pro-athlete that doesn’t leave a lot of time to rebuild strength, to avoid losing skills. If it hadn’t been me, Greg would have found someone else—there are five of us on the training team—but I offered. Partially because it was an excellent opportunity to lead his physio. To take charge, under Greg’s guidance, of his conditioning and recovery. My Master’sprogram requires a capstone project, anyway. It made sense to use the time I spent one-on-one with the big, bearded goalie toward my degree.

I never hid that fact from Ragnar. He knew I was in it for class credits, but I was also in it for him. There’s something incredibly humbling, heartbreaking, about seeing a man as strong as Ragnar Ólaffson lose everything because of an injury. Arguably one of the best players in the league, and one nasty hit laid him low. I wanted to help. I still do.

As a bonus, every time Ragnar was sick to death of an exercise, or reaching his limits, he’d grit his teeth and furrow his brow.

“W-w-we’re g-getting you an… A.”

Then he’d finish out the movement as if he were Odysseus throwing the suitors out of his great hall. It was… hot. Not that I let myself go there. But mild-mannered, soft-spoken, Ragnar was hot even if I would not let myself notice.

I’m not looking for a relationship, and even if I was… well, it wouldn’t be Ragnar Ólaffson. Right? He needs someone softer. Gentler. Someone with their life all figured out. He looks like he’d be sweet, energetic, but needs a lot of handholding. I am not that someone. I can barely look after myself.

It has been too long since I’ve had sex, though. Not two years, but long enough. Too bad my tastes swing more towards being told what to do, rather than to tell.

“We always knew you would do amazing things,” Dad says, and I push the salmon around my mom’s everyday china plate while trying to control my rogue thoughts.

I’m used to seeing her before she sees me, and the gym is no exception. I know the Arctic staff have access to the weight room and equipment any time we aren’t training. She and I met in these exact rooms for days on days on days while I fought to fix my damn body into some semblance of a professional hockey player.

I watch the swing of her dark ponytail, hints of the pink strand peeking through as it moves. Her skin glows under the fluorescent lights and her lips move, mouthing the words to whatever song is blaring through her headphones. She wears the big kind, the ones that go over her hair and ears, but that’s not the real reason she doesn’t notice me.

I’m used to this, watching her from the sidelines. Not in a weird way. I know that sounds creepy, but I would never….

I don’t go looking for her. I don’t stare, but I do notice.

She walks into a room and just… glows. Everyone circles her like she’s the sun, the center, combusting in the middle of the crowd. It’s a physical pull to be in her orbit. The tug a visceral yank deep in my belly. I want to push closer, bask in her warmth, but I don’t. If she wanted me there, she’d invite me. She has before. Muscling my way into her presence would be like a herd of reindeer trampling the ground into dust. Laying waste to the ecosystem, destroying the delicate balance.

All those friendly conversations? The smiles? They would screech to a halt. They always do.

So, I hang back and I watch. A little.

“Rags,” she smiles at me, never losing her pace, not sounded winded at all. It does funny things to my internal organs. “I just started. Wanna join me?”

I knew she’d be working out now. I had her schedule memorized before I even realized what I’d done. Spend enough time aware of someone and you’ll recognize their patterns. Where they like to go, what they like to do. She gets a smoothie from upstairs after her workout. Since it’s off-hours, she’s wearing a bright pink workout set. When the team is floating around, she sticks to the more neutral team colors. And less skin.

I swallow and avert my eyes. Watching her the way I do is already bad enough. I should not be ogling her body. Her skin. And if my mind slides to her in the split second before I come, well, no one needs to know. I feel guilty about that as it is.

“I’ll even slow down just for you, old guy.” This time it’s a wink and I drop my chin to my chest, grinning too.

“I d-don’t w-w-want… to i-intrude.” It’s decades of training that stop me from wincing at the stutter in my words. Shame, embarrassment, they only make it all worse.

I choose the treadmill next to her, keying in a slow warmup. I’m allowed to run, but I’m not supposed to push myself here. I can save that for the ice. I’ve already done my workout today. This slow, steady pace is good for my muscles.

She pulls her headphones down around her neck and punches the button on her treadmill; the machine whirring as the speed slows. My heart turns over in my chest in an almost sickening swoop.

“P-p-pl-please d-don’t…” don’t what? I don’t want her to ruin her workout just because I needed to be near her. But I also don’twant her to put her headphones back on. I like her attention on me, even if I don’t know what to do with it. The focus might be painful, but the alternative—not being on her radar—is infinitely worse.

She doesn’t rush me into the second half of my sentence. She doesn’t fill in the words she thinks I’m trying to say. She smiles encouragingly and waits; her gaze dipping back to the numbers on her machine.

“You don’t h-h-have to st-stop for m-me.”

The smile that curves her lips could rival the sun. She could power Los Angeles during a blackout. Or Texas when their power grid fails. It’s a quick here-and-gone thing, and my gut twists because it’s meant just for me.

“I don’t have to,” she agrees, slowing her pace even more. “But I want to.”

Warmth spreads through my veins like honey.

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