Page 31 of Left-Hand Larceny
Is my brain still working? It feels like it might be leaking out of my ears.
“S-Sadie is h-helping me l-l-learn to be m-more social. But I d-don’t need h-help with women,” Ragnar says, so casually it feels like a slap. His accent softens the edges, makes it sound more like fact than brag.
The table explodes. Spags slaps his palm on the sticky wood. Maddie laughs so hard she has to cover her mouth. Even Tristan cracks a genuine smile.
“Damn, Rags,” Spags shakes his head. “Who knew you were such a cocky bastard under all that quiet Viking energy?”
HELLO?!?!?!?!My brain yells.He let me give him a whole lecture about feelings and benefits and friendship…. And he’s GOOD WITH WOMEN? My Ragnar?
There’s no reason for me to feel possessive of him, but I do. He asked for help because he said he doesn’t know how to talk to people. But he knows how to pick up girls?
“So you’ve got rizz.” Spags cackles. “Ever need a wing man? I could—” He cuts off on a strangled sound. I can imagine Maddie yanking on his leg hair to shut him up.If she did, she gets another cake.
“Wait, so you, like, date?” Tristan cocks her head to the side. “Sorry, that was an insanely rude question. Do not answer.”
“You know what?” Quinn smiles. “I believe it. Us redheads are fiery. Both in and out of bed. Right, babe?”
Erik coughs up a lungful of beer.
“How?” Spags asks, even as he flinches and ducks another smack from Maddie. “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he says, hands up to protect his face. I brace myself for something careless and cutting, something about talking to women. Spags isn’t a bad guy. He just doesn’t allow his brain the time it needs to process before his mouth opens.
“But how is he good with women, if he needs the trainer’s help to talk to normal people? No offense Sadie.”
My eyes narrow. I wonder if he can tell I’m glaring a hole in his head. I glance to my right, hoping Ragnar isn’t backtracking with all this talk, not after all the work he’s done today. Except he doesn’t look upset at all. He’s smiling softly. Arm still stretched out along the back of the booth.
“You don’t n-need to talk to g-get laid.” Ragnar trails his fingers down the edge of my arm. His free hand brushes his copper hair off his forehead. Is the world moving in slow motion? It might be. “You just h-have to know w-what you’re d-doing. A-and do it well.”
The men at the table whoop with delight. The women shriek with laughter, and I try to get my lungs to work properly. Breathing is supposed to be automatic, right? Or semi-automatic?
“D-don’t worry Sadie. I’m n-not going to m-make a p-pass at y-you. But…” His voice pitches low enough that only I catchit, and I shiver as his breath coasts over the shell of my ear. “If you’re e-ever i-interested, just say the w-word. Anytime… anyplace.”
My stomach flips. There’s heat pooling low in my belly and a flutter in my chest that is probably dangerous.
Any time.
Any place.
I swallow hard.
The conversation moves on because thank god it has to, and the birthday cake pulls everyone’s attention. But even an hour later, my heart is thundering against my ribs, and Ragnar’s still watching me out of the corner of his eye.
When he finally gets up to leave, running his hand down the length of my braid, the others call out goodbyes—See you at practice. Thank you for coming. Take care. Pet Howl for me.
But Ragnar only looks at me.
And in hindsight, that should have been a blinking neon sign smacking me upside the head. I’m in so much more trouble than I thought. And it’s only day one.
The weight of the rink settles over me the second I step inside. The frigid air, the echo of blades carving ice, the sharp scent of sweat and rubber combined with the metallic stink of the Zamboni. It’s all familiar as muscle memory, but it doesn’t settle the knot in my chest. Not today.
It’s louder now than it was in the summer. Not that I expected it to be any different. The entire team is out today and conditioning skates always bring out the worst in guys. The hacking coughs, the grumbled curses, the pucks flung at the boards in frustration. I’ve already lost count of how many laps I’ve done, my thighs burning, my chest tight, but I welcome the pain. At least it keeps my mind occupied.
I don’t let myself look for her.
Not consciously, anyway.
Not that it matters.
My eyes flick to the edge of the ice between drills, seeking the dark swing of her braid, the glint of glittery pink glasses. Nothing. I know she’s not on the ice crew today, not scheduled to tape ankles or haul out water bottles, but my stupid traitorous brain still hopes for a glimpse. Pathetic.
