Page 35 of Left-Hand Larceny

“I’m n-not trying t-t-to—” I start, then stop, scrubbing a hand down my beard. “It’s… s-social media stuff. Sponsorship. She’s h-helping me f-f-figure it out.”

Vic snorts. “Yeah, because Tristan wouldn’t kill to do that for you.”

I glance over at the other side of the rink where his wife, our social media manager, is currently arguing with a vendor rep about banner placement. I would give up my chances at Lord Stanley’s cup to not have to go talk to her right now.

“She’s b-busy.”

“She’s always busy, but she makes time for people she likes. And you’re one of her favorite weirdos.” Vic elbows me. “You know she’d whip up a highlight reel for you in a heartbeat. Set up a charity event. She loves that crap.”

Actually, it was on my list. Eventually. Maybe I wanted to be a little more self-assured first. Maybe I find Tristan beyond terrifying. Maybe…

I just wanted to ask someone different.

I shrug.

Vic huffs a laugh. “And you asked Sadie because you’ve been low-key obsessed with her since the day she started with the team.”

“I a-askedb-b-because I—”

“Because you wanted to spend time with her? Are incapable of telling her no? Hoped she’d realize she’s desperately in love back? Dude, I swear I’m not judging. I’ve been there before. Trust me on this one.”

I consider holding up my middle fingers, but I don’t.

“Sadie l-l-let’s me b-be me.”

My captain snaps his mouth closed and studies me. I swear he’s looking into the deepest recesses of my brain, using a high-power flashlight to scare the secrets out of the corners. I hate I had to say it. Not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I knowhow Sadie makes me feel. Warm. Whole. Enough. Like Ragnar Ólaffson the guy. Not Ragnar Ólaffson the goalie. Not Ragnar Ólaffson who can’t talk right. It’s a heady emotion. One I could never be ashamed of.

But I am ashamed of the implication of my confession. I trust Vic with my life. Literally. He’s a great guy. Possibly the greatest guy I know. He loves fiercely…especially his wife, and Tristan has been nothing but sweet and supportive. She’s been willing to work with me, keep me comfortable even as I have to fulfill my contract’s marketing quota. She’s great.

But that doesn’t make her any easier to talk to, easier to understand. Add in the time she threatened to have Spaeglin’s dick stuffed and mounted to a wall, and I can’t help being… nervous.

“Right. I’ll drop it.” Vic claps me on the shoulder and pushes off the boards. “But if you ever want actual advice, you know where to find me.”

I let him skate away without a word.

After ice time, we move on to the weight room and I’m still texting her. Dumb stuff. Crossword clues. A picture of Spags mid-fall on the ice captioned graceful. The spot on the blue line that looks a bit like an overweight penguin. I don’t send a selfie, but I do send a photo of my thumbs up when she asks how my hip is doing. I don’t want us to fall into trainer/player mode and I don’t tell her I took one corner a bit too fast, and it aches. I’ll probably need an ice bath later.

Her replies come in quick bursts peppered with emojis and sarcastic commentary. It’s easy. Natural in a way I’m not used to. Not since the long, quiet summers in Reykjavik . Not since she made my rehab days feel like something other than a punishment.

I’m halfway through a set of bench presses when my phone buzzes again. I reach for it on instinct, not paying a single iotaof attention to the name at the top. I almost feel deflated when I realize it’s not Sadie.Then the guilt threatens to consume me.

KItty Kat:

I aced a test today.

I know you’re at the rink, but can I have a picture of Howl? Tell him I miss him, please.

I’m not proud of the swoop in my gut. This is my baby sister. Emphasis on baby. She’s texting about our dog, but that’s a ruse I know how to translate. Me. She misses me and I’ve missed so many important parts of her life. Her birth, for starters.

I was a rookie when she was born, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to step away from the season to meet the newest member of my family. I wasn’t even starting then, but I remember the intense need that churned in my gut. The one demanding I put in twice the work of everyone else I knew. All because I was sure failure wasn’t an option.

And then my parents were gone.

I was only twenty. Wholly unprepared for taking on the responsibility of a toddler. Not sure what I could even do. At that point, I’d already devoted a decade to hockey. It made more sense all around for Amma to take over raising Kat. She already lived in the same home. She was healthy, strong enough to keep up with an eighteen-month-old. And I… sent money.

My shoulders tense as a shiver wracks my entire frame.

I scroll through my camera roll until I find the one from yesterday — Howl sprawled on the couch, tongue lolling out, a yellow scarf tangled around his paws. Sadie’s scarf. He’d immediately claimed it for himself. I had gotten it away from him unharmed, but he was still trying to hunt it down this morning.

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