Page 22 of Left-Hand Larceny
Or I want to be. I used to be. Lately, it just feels like it’s harder and harder to meet expectations. And I hate feeling like a failure.
I’m not sure if he looks scared or intrigued, but a get a hint of a smile and another nod.
“Th-Thursday, Sadie.”
I smile back.
“I think I might be melting,” Sadie says next to me, shoving the sleeves of her deep green sweater up to her elbows. “It’s so fucking hot.”
I bite my lip to keep back the tiny smile. Of course it’s hot. Not just because we’re both used to spending ungodly amounts of time in the tundra that is the Stand’s rink. It’s September in Quarry Creek. The weather won’t turn until at least mid-October, but recently it’s been staying warmer longer.
“I-it m-might be the s-s-sweater.”
Sadie gestures in front of her. There’s a small crowd of people, wearing similar fall-themed clothing, all clutching brown papers bags with the orchard’s logo printed on the side.
“It’s fall.” Sadie sniffs, pulling the knit away from her chest to fan herself. “Look.” I follow the direction she’s pointing, grateful for something other than her breasts to hold my attention. “Tristan’s dressed for fall. She gets it.”
That isn’t the ringing endorsement she thinks it is. Yes, Tristan browbeat all of us into correct formal wear for events and meticulously plans player wardrobes for photo shoots, but I’m also fairly certain she has ice water running through her veins. I don’t think she’s ever broken a sweat. The closest I’ve seen her come to perspiring, is when she discovered she’d married our captain, Vic.
Vic, who like me, is wearing a t-shirt and jeans.And honestly, it looked more like panic and rage than sweat.
“You c-could take off the s-scarf?”
Her nose crinkles up at me and I want to press the tip of my finger to it. Like she’s a tiny, hissing kitten.
“Or d-don’t.”
I fight a smile as she rolls her eyes. So far, I’m not having an awful time. Or, at least, not nearly as bad as I thought I would. When Sadie first suggested a birthday party, I had visions of screaming kids, a piñata shaped like some unidentified cryptid, and mountains of sugar sending said kids into a tailspin of noise and chaos. Aka, something I’d like to avoid at all costs. When I was first drafted into the NHL, my team captain invited me to his five-year-old’s birthday party. I went because it seemed like the right thing to do. In hindsight, that was my version of having to moon the trainer. It was that bad.
This I can handle. I hadn’t realized Tristan’s little sister wasn’t… little. And I don’t just say that because she’s taller than Tristan by at least half a foot. Sometimes I forget that my family looks nothing like most others. Decades of an age-gap between siblings isn’t the norm. Dead parents aren’t the norm either. Or a brother who lives out of the country and didn’t come home to pick up the slack. Other times, it’s the only thing I can think about.
“It’s apple picking.” Sadie plants her hands on her hips. “Sweaters and boots and fall fits are basically a requirement. But now, if I take off the scarf, I’ll have to carry it.” She says the word—carry—like she’s talking about a Petri dish of Ebola. “It’s fine. I’ll live.”
“Incoming wagon,” someone calls out, and I hear the rumble of a giant green tractor before I see it. It rounds the corner of a wide-open field, kicking up dust from the dirt road.
I take an automatic step back and Sadie’s hand touches my waist. Her fingers scorch my skin through the cotton of my shirt, which does absolutely nothing to stop the pounding of my heart. The wagon is packed full of people, all carrying overflowing bags of ripe, red fruit. The volume alone could rival the Strand during playoffs.It’s overwhelming, not being able to hide behind my mask.
The hand on my back begins a steady trip up and back down my spine, rubbing in soothing circles.
“Th-hat’s a lot of p-p-people.”
Sadie’s hand rubs harder.
“It is.” She agrees.
“We’re gonna walk,” she calls out to the group, and I let her lead me down the dirt road instead, sidestepping the tractor. We stick to the ruts along the side, waiting for the wagon to load up and rumble past us, kicking up more dirt as it goes. Her hair swings in a thick rope above the curve of her butt. I try not to stare. I swear.
I fail.
“S-sorry,” I try to say, both for ogling and for making us walk in the heat, but she looks at me over her shoulder, smiling. The sun glints off the pink glitter embedded into the frames of her glasses. “W-we could h-have—”
She shakes her head, no.
“B-but wouldn’t it…it b-be good p-practice?”
This time she shrugs.
“Today will be practice enough.” She uses one hand to wipe the sweat beading on her forehead. “I thought this might be an easier start. You’ve met almost everyone here, even if just peripherally, and they’re good people. Plus, we can always duck down our own row of trees under the pretense of finding the good stuff if you need a break.”
