Page 60 of Left-Hand Larceny
He’s here.
He’s back.
And god… he looks good.
I scan his body automatically—habit now—watching for any signs of stiffness, any hesitation in his movements. But there’s nothing. Not a single damn thing. He’s loose, easy in his stance, tapping his stick rhythmically against the posts as he settles into the crease.
I don’t even look towards Varg and Oakes, taking their spots for the anthems and the faceoff. I’m watching Ragnar Ólaffson roll his shoulders, swing his arms across his body—stick and all—and then slowly, carefully, just the way I taught him, stretch out the lines of his neck.
The national anthem plays, the puck drops, and just like that, we’re underway.
It’s like an electric current zaps my little toe.
I barely breathe for the entire first period. Every shot that comes his way has me gripping the wall like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground. But Ragnar is calm. Steady. He tracks the puck like it’s an extension of himself, reading plays before they unfold, sliding across the crease with precision and grace.
And not a single defender lets anyone get within arm’s length of him.
By the time the buzzer sounds, we’re up by two, and Ragnar’s got a… nope. I won’t even let myself think it. I know better than to jinx him.
I exhale hard, my knees weak with relief. Honestly, I debate sliding down the boards to curl up on the cold, damp concrete.In the fetal position. Isn’t relief supposed to feel good? All I feel is wrung out, and the game’s not even over.
“See?” Greg says from behind me. I didn’t even hear him walk up. “Told you.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder and I smile, but my eyes stay locked on the ice. On him.
The second period starts and Ragnar is even sharper. He’s in the zone now, locked in completely, his movements instinctive and seamless. Every save is a little dagger of pride in my chest, each one proof that he’s okay. That he’s better than okay—he may have actually done it. A comeback.
The crowd chants his name after a brutal glove-save twists his spine into a pretzel, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth lift beneath the cage of his mask. I suck in a breath.
I’m so proud of him I could cry.
But I also know he has an entire period left.
The buzzer sounds to end the second , and I finally remember how to breathe the right way. Ragnar is killing it out there. The scoreboard shows a perfect zero for the other team—a goose egg—and my heart races with equal parts joy and gut-twisting nerves. I wonder how he’s feeling. From here he seems happy, but I don’t have the best view of his face.
I step back from my spot, trying to shake out my stiff legs, when I spot Tristan weaving her way over. She’s spends most game in the box with Quinn and Erik. Her chic boots click against the concrete. Have I ever seen her not in heels? I’m in awe. Then again, I’m not barely five-feet tall and required to face off against players that mostly top out over six feet. I’m pretty sure her husband is six foot five!
She gives me a grin as she approaches, her eyes flicking toward the ice and then back to me. “Hey, superstar.”
I snort. “If you mean the guy on the ice, yes. Total superstar.”
She hums, stepping up next to me, her gaze lingering where Ragnar spent the last period crouched in front of the net. He’s over by the tunnel now, chatting with Vic as they head off the ice.
“He looks good,” Tristan says. “Really good. You’ve been working miracles.”
I glance at her, my throat tightening. “Again, he’s the one doing all the work. I’m just… there.”
“Sadie.” Tristan tips her head, giving me a knowing look. “Don’t downplay it. Seriously. He wouldn’t be out there like that if it weren’t for you.”
I shrug. Greg would have put in the work if I hadn’t. Everyone keeps praising me, but I just followed the treatment plan and documented it for school. Ragnar is the one doing the work. Ragnar is the one blasting all expectations out of the water, but my chest still warms at the compliment.
We watch in silence for a beat as the kids skate out to sweep up the snow and clear the ice.
“So,” Tristan starts casually, “how’s he doing? Not just physically—I mean, is he happy? Being back in the game, in the spotlight?”
Her tone is casual, but there’s something else beneath it. Subtle. Curious.
I lift a shoulder, trying to keep my voice even. “He’s good. I think he was nervous—like, really nervous—but now? He looks solid. Like himself.”
