Page 32 of Left-Hand Larceny
I pull my helmet offto grab some water, shoving sweaty hair off my forehead, and reach for my phone on the bench like a reflex. My thumbs open the crossword app before I can stopmyself. It’s our thing, or it was this summer. Something simple and so right. Sadie’s brain is wired for words, mine for patterns. Together, we can usually knock out a daily puzzle in ten minutes, tops.
I type the first clue into a text, hit send, and drop my phone face down on the bench like it might burn me.
Me:
Six letters. Cryptic message.
She probably won’t answer, and I shouldn’t expect her to. She’s busy. It’s a rare day off. She’s probably studying. Living her life.
This isn’t like the last few months. When it was just the two of us here while the team was on break. She’d pass me resistance bands while I limped around like an arthritic polar bear, and I’d pretend not to stare at the pink streak in her hair when she bent over to adjust the ice packs on my hip. No one to notice if I forgot how to talk. No one to judge if I let myself laugh.
It was easier then.
I pick up my stick again, pull on my helmet, and join the next drill.
The whistle shrieks and we take off, sharp turns around cones, stopping short enough to send ice chips flying. I’m a half-step behind Vic the whole time, not because I’m slower, but because my focus keeps sliding sideways. I tell myself it’s the new strength program. My still-healing hip. That Vic is a forward and I’m a goalie. He should be faster
Or that fucking text burning a hole in my pocket.
I shouldn’t have texted her. If she wanted to talk to me, she would have. I probably made her uncomfortable last night.
When we finally get another break, I swipe my phone again.
Sadie:
Riddle.
A grin cracks across my face before I can stop it.
Goddamn it. This woman.
Me:
Can’t fool you, Sadie Jones.
Sadie:
Someone’s gotta carry the team, Ragnar Ólaffson.
She even adds the diacritic above the O. Either she’s typed my name enough for it to autocorrect, or she took the extra minute to add it. Both options are good.
The rink feels colder than usual this morning—probably because I’m not strapped into all my pads—but the sweat clinging to my skin makes it feel like a sauna. My legs burn, my lungs ache. It’s a familiar pain, a welcome distraction. I open the app to grab another clue, keep the conversation flowing, when another message comes through. My phone jumps in my hand.
Sadie:
I’m glad you texted me.
Me too.
Me:
A four-letter word for ‘companion’
I send it before I can second-guess myself. I should have dropped the crossword pretext. Just told her I was glad I’d sent that first message. The screen remains silent, no immediatereply. I stash my phone on the bench, pretending not to care even as the anticipation gnaws at me.
Back on the ice, I try to focus on drills, but my mind drifts. The memory of Sadie’s laughter, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the warmth of her hand in mine—all of it lingers.
I scramble for my phone again at the next break.
