Page 63 of Left-Hand Larceny

The puck cracks off the boards and dies somewhere in the neutral zone, and the final buzzer sounds like a fire alarm.

My whole body is humming—exhausted and electric and raw in the best way. My pads are soaked from sweat and melting snow, my throat’s dry from yelling, and I’ve got a bruise on my collarbone from an unlucky slapshot that slipped through the top of my chest protector. But I don’t care.

I’m back.

I peel off my helmet and give it the smallest raise toward the stands. Not a full-on showboating salute, but acknowledgment. Gratitude. Relief.

And a small, stupid part of me hopes Sadie saw it.

The locker room buzzes, all noise and sweat and adrenaline. It’s preseason, but Spags is acting like we won the Cup. He’s got his jersey half off and is mock-fighting with Gagey while blasting music from a Bluetooth speaker he definitely wasn’t supposed to have in here. The lounge? Fine, but Coach prefers we maintain some sense of professionalism in the stalls. Mostly because the press can walk in at any moment and the last thing we need is Spags, half-dressed, serenading us with his hockey stick clutched like a microphone. Although Tristan would probably love it.

“You’re all horn and no horsepower,” Robbie mutters, pinning the younger guy against the bench with one massive hand.

“Sounds like something a guy who got deked out of his jock would say,” Spags fires back, grinning.

I chuckle and start unbuckling my pads, my fingers clumsy and slow. I’m dragging it out, part of me not ready for this night to end. I feel heavy, solid, purposeful. I like it. A lot.

My phone buzzes in my stall. I glance at it, a quick glimpse of the screen lighting up, and my stomach turns like I’ve hit a sudden drop in a rollercoaster.

Twenty-one notifications. Probably more by now.

I know who I’m hoping for.

I towel off the worst of the sweat and sit back on the bench, scrolling through the lock screen. NHL alerts. Group text from the trainers. One from Kat expressing praise and also gratitude that she could stay up late to watch.

I grin and keep scrolling.

On social media, my old helmet post is blowing up again. The one I filmed with Tristan last year while she was busy falling head over heels for the captain and trying to distract the public from a nasty scandal involving one of our forwards. She talked me into leaving up when I wanted to delete it. She said it would resonate. She said people needed to hear it. I wasn’t sure what people needed to hear about the artwork on my helmet, but I’m always ready to gas up my baby sister.

Turns out Tristan was right. I should have never judged her expertise. My sister begged to make an art account to get followers based on the numbers my one post brought in. Amma and I said absolutely not, but I do still get comments and likes on that one video. I also still get responses to my photo of Howl.

I swipe into the app and my thumb hovers over the video. It’s not the old post at all. Tristan reposted it to the main team page.

I see myself on the tiny screen, in the crease at the practice rink. No pads, just a hoodie and my mask in hand. Talking about the gyrfalcon on the sides—about flight, and control, and how home isn’t a place you return to, it’s something you reclaim when you’re ready to move forward. I talked about Kat too in that video, what it’s like being so far from my family.

I still don’t love hearing my voice. Still hate the way the stutter hangs like an asterisk in the middle of every phrase. Tristan offered to have still images and let me write something, but it didn’t feel right. Instead, I let go. Raw. Honest. Real.

Tristan told me it was better that way, anyway.

I scroll through the comments flooding in tonight. There are so many I can barely keep up.

@hockeymom1975: The stutter makes it better. More honest. Beautifully said, kid.

@skatesandsyntax: My little brother has a stutter. Thank you for this. You made him feel seen.

@IcelandicIcicle: Are you single? Asking for science.

@linguistinthelowzone: How do you say “hot damn, daddy” in Icelandic?

My throat tightens. I should feel proud. Maybe I do. But underneath the buzz of the win and the praise, all I want isto know where Sadie is. Was she watching me play? Was she waiting with bated breath to see if I’d make it through?

She watched the video the first time it posted. I know that. But did she see what came next? Did she see the comments? Did she think of me after the game? Is she thinking about me now?

I open her message thread. Empty since earlier this week. I type and delete three drafts of a text before settling on something that feels safe:

Me:

Did you watch? We did it. Thank you.

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