Page 24 of Left-Hand Larceny

I repeat the words to myself like a mantra as I move toward one of the picnic tables. I prop my rear on the edge of the wood, adjusting the apple bag in my lap as Sadie laughs at something Robbie says.Robbie, who is definitely seeing someone even if he won’t confirm it to the public. Robbie, who isn’t lusting after our peppy little trainer. Robbie, who is taller than me, but not more muscled. And I know where he likes to dump all his shots on goal. He rarely gets one past me.

“Hi.”

I almost jump at the voice. Which is embarrassing given my reflexes on the ice.

The woman next to me can look me directly in my eyes—she’s that tall. Her hair is a riot of orange, and she’s also wearing a chunky, too-warm sweater.

“I’m Quinn,”

I know she is. I once helped Erik and Vic put together a grand romantic gesture for her.But I keep that thought to myself. Sadie said smile, not correct. Quinn has mossy green eyes. If they were blue, we could have been twins.

“You’re Ragnar right?” I meet her eyes and hold them, pulling my lips wide in a friendly smile.

“R-Ragnar Ólaffson.” What do I do next? Reciprocate the question? I hold my hand out for her to shake. Or something. “And you are? Right. Never mind. Quinn.”

Her laugh is kind. Chuckling because I said something funny, not at my social blunder or how quickly I forgot her introduction. There’s now a slightly lower chance I might vibrate out of my skin, even as shift my gaze to Sadie.

“I’m glad you came today. I’ve been meaning to ask you about your helmet. Tristan mentioned your sister designed it?”

I nod.

“She said you didn’t mind talking about it, but if it’s too personal, I understand.”

I shake my head before I remember Sadie’s advice and force a smile. To Quinn’s credit, she doesn’t flinch, but her eyes seem brighter than before.

“M-my h-helmet is a gyrfalcon. They’re an Arctic b-bird of p-prey and the n-n-national bird of my home country.” I suck in air and bring my eyes back to Quinn’s face. They’ve been hovering on a cluster of leaves just over her left shoulder. She nods as I catch her gaze again and I wonder if she noticed my lack of eye-contact.

“I heard your sister painted it?”

I nod again as Quinn inspects the apples in her bag like they’re the most interesting things in the universe. I don’t know what to say, don’t know how to break the silence. It’s not that I don’t like Quinn—I do—but I’m just not great at making small talk. Especially when I think everyone’s watching me, like some kind of science experiment. I look beyond Quinn at the rest of the party. They all turn away, laughing too loud and crashing into each other in an elaborate effort to appear like they weren’t watching us like a sideshow.

Am I supposed to say more? Keep talking? Across the grass, Sadie circles her fingers and gives an exaggerated nod, her head tipping toward Quinn. Expand. Say more. Got it.

“She’s an a-a-amazing a-artist. M-most g-g-goalies have d-designs on..on…on their h-helmets. It made s-sense to a-ask Katrín.”

Quinn’s face brightens, and it knocks me a bit off balance. Her green eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s something easy about her energy. She’s not waiting for me to impress her or fill the silence between us, but I still managed to do both.

“I’ll admit I saw a picture of it on the Arctic’s page,” she says. “It’s sick. The detail in the feathers, the way it looks like it’s about to take flight. Honestly, it’s one of the coolest masks I’ve ever seen.”

Yes. My single foray into the world of social media under Tristan’s expert guidance. I’m glad Kat got some well-deserved recognition out of that post. Even if she rolled her eyes and drew my name out into a long whine when she first saw the post.

“How long did it take her?”

I huff out a short laugh. It’s mostly pride, coupled with disbelief, that Kat pulled it off. She was barely ten when I asked.

“Sh-she w-w-worked on it for a whole s-summer straight. I, uh, I brought h-her all her f-favorite candy and made s-s-sure she had water. Otherwise, she’d f-forget to take b-breaks.”

“Did she paint the actual helmet? Or…” she trails off, but the meaning is clear. Even to me.

“F-first she p-painted it f-flat. On p-paper.”

“Watercolor?”

I nod. “Th-then w-we wrapped the b-bird around my p-p-practice h-helmet.” She hadn’t liked the way the first two paintings transferred, the proportions of the eyes and feathers changing as they curved around the polycarbonate. She’d started over again and again, to the point I thought she was going to throw her paints across the room.Or quit.

Quinn presses a hand to the front of her chest, as her eyes go suspiciously shiny.

“That’s perfect. I love that you two are close, and that you support her art.”

---