Page 4 of Left-Hand Larceny

“No way,” I grin. “Do you speak Polish?”

“No.”

I stick my lower lip out and furrow my brows. I don’t really care if he speaks a third language; I do care that he keeps chatting with me. He’s always so quiet, so stoically on his own, and yet we’re back to one-word answers and writing out clues. The team adores him—I’m ninety-six percent sure that one of the Rush players left the ice with a broken nose after what happened to Rags at the end of last season—but he still seems… lonely. Like there’s a wall of plexiglass standing between him and everyone else. It was something I noticed even before we spent the off-season working together.

“Katrín knows a… a bit. From f-friends.”

His face softens the way it always does when he mentions his little sister. His arctic eyes go warm, little crinkles appeararound the edges and the corners of his mouth. The tension he normally carries through his shoulders and neck… gone.

“Was it hard not going home this summer?”

He swings his head to look at me, as if he’s surprised I knew he spent almost every off-season in his home country. He shrugs, but his eyes shutter in a way I know means yes. It was.

“I haven’t c-c-called Reykjavik my h-home since I was a b-boy.” His throat bobs as he swallows, and even under the layer of copper beard, I can tell he’s clenching his jaw. “Wh-when I t-told her I was s-staying in the states, she c-c-called me achujowy samochód.” His gaze darts to me and then away again, his ears flaming magenta. “Like a car that c-c-cannot d-drive.”

I laugh. “A lemon?”

He nods. “But…dick-like.”

This time I snort. “In polish?”

“It is the-the-the second m-most popular language.”

I tap a finger on the edge of the newspaper; it crinkles under my touch and Rags tightens his grip.

“This is why I needed your help. I was out of my depth with moonshine.”

He looks down again, eyes moving over the list of clues. Dark copper—almost orange—brows knit together.

“D-did you know the t-term moon-moonshine c-comes from England?” His lashes sweep down over his cheeks as his chest rises and falls with a sharp inhale.

“Yeah?” This bench really is hell. I cannot find a way to get comfy and if I keep fidgeting, he might stop talking altogether. I’m loathe to put any sort of damper on this conversation. “I thought it was named for the practice of being brewed at night. Avoid the brass and all that jazz.”

I let my body slide off the hard bench until I’m seated on the floor, which feels marginally better. It’s gross—the testosterone funk is inescapable at The Stand—but I really don’t care. I aminfinitely more comfortable on the floor, my legs pulled up and under me. I can practically hear my mother screaming, “Sadie, posture,” as I spin myself around. Ragnar watches me like I’m the opposition or a hockey puck careening toward him. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. I loop my feet up over the seat of the bench and lie back flat on the cool floor. Yes, it’s nasty, but I feel less restless on the ground and this is what washing machines are for.

“Scottish and-and-and Irish immigrants brought it h-here. But the term has b-b-been around since the late s-seventeen-hun-hundreds.”

I pat his thigh, feeling the muscles jump under my palm. “Aren’t you just a fount of knowledge?”

“I like t-t-to r-read.” His blush deepens. I think it’s adorable how red he gets when given a compliment, but for now, I take pity on him and change the subject.It’s not like I take compliments any better than he does.

“How old is your sister now?” She’s younger than I remember. I know that much.A lot younger. Still a kid.

He holds up one finger on his left hand, then two on his right. He was comfortable with me before, with talking, now we’re back to hand-gestures. I close my eyes and feel the chill from the floor seep through the cotton of my hoodie and into the marrow of my bones.I wonder what I did.

“A preteen,” I say, “My sympathies.”

“W-why?”

I frown, pursing my lips. “It can be a tough age.”

At least that’s what everyone says. My parents, for example. To their friends, colleagues, to me. Teenagers are a headache. They say with a sympathetic smile and rueful laugh. You just have to survive them.

I never snuck out or lied about my whereabouts. I got decent grades and played three varsity sports, but I’m sure that I wasalso the stereotypical sullen and angsty teen. Even if I knew how good my life was, how different the alternative might have gone. Ragnar’s sister lives with their grandma. I don’t know the full story, but his parents aren’t around. That can’t be easy on any kid, let alone one bursting at the seams with a hormone cocktail powerful enough to fell an elephant. Or a blue whale. Or an oversized hockey goalie.

“She must miss you terribly.”

I can feel the shake of his head even with my eyes screwed shut. I squint my left one, peering at him from under the shadow of my lashes. His mouth is pursed, white lines of tension bracketing the soft pink of his lips before disappearing into the copper beard he keeps trimmed short.

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