Page 66 of Left-Hand Larceny

I scratch behind Howl’s ears and pretend I’m not checking every other second.

Then—buzz.

Sadie:

The first one is SHUTOUT.

The second is probably your brain post concussion. Or Cheese?

I laugh, startled. My chest lifts like I’ve had a weight sat on my sternum and can finally suck in air.

Me:

Both, probably. But it was sponge.

Sadie:

Gross Rags. Okay. Give me another.

I bite my lip.

Me:

6 letters. Area directly in front of the net.

There’s a pause. Longer this time. I wonder if I overstepped. If it was too much. Or I’m reading into this. I’m literally sending her random texts with crossword puzzle clues. Not exactly compelling conversation.

Then her answer blinks through:

Sadie:

Crease.

I stop breathing. Then I laugh. Quiet and full and wrecked in the best way. Howl whines like he wants to know what’s so funny, licking my chin as he gives me big dark puppy eyes. I scratch his head and lean back against the cabinets, the phone still glowing in my hand. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I fit. In this game. In this place. In this skin. Sadie makes it easier. All of it.

I’m elbow-deep in resistance bands and trying not to think about what Ragnar looks like in a suit. Specifically, whether he owns one. And if not, whether it would be weird to offer to help him pick one out.

Not because I care or anything, but as a professional courtesy. A purely logistical gala-prep kind of favor. So he doesn’t end up wearing something tragic. Like a black-on-black-on-black combo with a clip-on tie from the mall.

“Thinking t-too hard?” Ragnar says from the table behind me, voice low and laced with amusement. “D-did the foam r-roller insult you?”

I glance over my shoulder. He’s lying on his side, propped on one elbow, watching me with a smirk that’s barely there but still hits me in the sternum. His hair is damp from the shower and curling at the ends. His shirt—the one I pretend not to notice fits him unfairly well—clings to his chest as he slowly stretches his hip.

“Not the roller,” I mutter. “Just mentally going over logistics.”

“Y-you haven’t m-moved.”

“I’m mentally very active.”

“Yes y-you are.”

I grab a roll of pre-wrap and chuck it at his chest. He catches it one-handed, left-handed, like the show-off he is.

“You know,” I say, straightening the box of ice packs on the shelf beside me, “the gala is this weekend.”

“It i-is.”

Do you have a date? That’s what I want to ask, but it’s a dangerous line of conversation. I pivot “Do you have a tie?”

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