Page 59 of Left-Hand Larceny

The hum of the arena is different tonight. Not the full-throttle pulse of regular season or the thunderous roar of the playoffs, but it’s not nothing either. There’s a sharpness to the energy, like everyone’s been holding their breath since last spring and finally—finally—they get to exhale.

I should feel the same way. I’m excited. I swear I am, but under the excitement is something tighter. Thinner. Frayed at the edges and threatening to unravel.

It’s the first preseason game. Aka, the first game since Ragnar went down hard on the ice last season, and didn’t get up. No matter how much we’ve worked on his recovery, no matter how many drills I watched him power through, I can’t stop thinking about that moment. One minute he was there, puck secure, little smirk over the mouth guard, and the next sprawled on the ice, the breath knocked out of him and the entire team standing there stunned. I can’t forget the blue of his eyes slicing deep into me as he blinked up from flat on his back.

That image is branded into my brain.

I keep telling myself he’s ready. I know he is. His numbers are solid. His flexibility is incredible. His conditioning is on point. He’s put in the work, day in and day out, and I’ve seen every painstaking second of it.

But… what if?

What if tonight is too soon? What if he pushes too hard because it’s his first time back in the net and his body betrays him? What if that sponsorship deal hangs over his head so heavily that he makes a mistake? What if he gets hurt again?

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to banish the spiral before it takes over completely. I need to be the calm voice of reason. I cannot be the one panicking here. I’ve got to keep it together.

“You good?” Greg’s voice cuts through my panic spiral, and I blink up at him.

“Yep,” I lie. “Just, you know. First game jitters.”

“Not your first game.” He grins knowingly.

I shrug. “But it’s his.”

It’s not like he just got called up from our farm team, or just inked his contract. Technically, he didn’t miss any game time from the last season. It was game seven. The playoffs. Rocky Mountain got the cup, and the arctic lost their goal tender.

This is day one all over again.

Greg sobers at that, his smile fading just a little. “He’s ready, Sadie. You know that better than anyone.”

I nod, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t ease. I haven’t seen Ragnar yet tonight. The team’s been annoyingly tight-lipped about who’s starting in the net, even during warmups, and part of me hopes it won’t be him. That he’ll get another week to breathe before stepping back into the crease.

Deep down, I know better. Ragnar wants this. He’s worked too hard to sit on the bench, no matter how much I might want to wrap him in bubble wrap and force him to play it safe.

It’s not physical. He’s good to play. Every test shows it. The issue will be if he doesn’t fully believe he’s ready. Lack of confidence can cause him to second guess.

Benching him today would give him more time to mentally prepare, but it will also send the wrong message to the restof the league. It’s not uncommon to play with lineups during preseason, but to not play our star goalie? Fresh off of an injury? Well, people will assume we don’t have faith in his recovery. That’s not a good look. He can always step back over the next few weeks of the preseason, but tonight? The opener? At home? He needs to pull this off.

“Sadie,” Greg says, pulling me back again. “He’s good. He needs you to know it, too.”

I nod, throat tight.

I head out of the trainers’ wing and make my way toward the tunnel, weaving through the familiar maze of hallways until I hit the spot where I know I’ll have the best view of the ice without being in the way. Warmups are done. Ragnar was out there stretching and take shots along with our backup.

The arena lights dim as I lean against the boards by the Zamboni. I have a perfect view of the tunnel as the announcer’s voice booms, and the team is introduced one by one. Cheers erupt, echoing off the rafters as each player steps out of the tunnel and onto the ice.

Ahlstrom, Oakes, and Varg. Gage and Maroni. Line one.

Pelletier, Spaeglin, and Martin. Bouchard and Beck. Line two.

I wait, listening for the last name. They always announce him last.

“And starting in net for your Quarry Creek Arctic… number thirty-three… Ragnar Ólaffson!”

The crowd explodes. A cheer that makes your heart thump in your chest and your ears ring. Like the Stand was a bottle of ice-cold coke and someone dropped in a handful of mentos, put the lid back on, and shook it with all their might.

And there he is. Ragnar. Fully geared up, skating out onto the ice like he owns it. His eyes are laser-focused, his shouldersbroad and squared, and his movements… they’re smooth. Confident. Controlled.

I let out a breath, my hands gripping the edge of the boards.

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