Page 7 of Left-Hand Larceny
So when Spags—the team rookie—showed up at the rink at the start of last season with a small white bundle clutched to his chest, it made sense to step in. Here was something I could take care of. Especially when added to the common knowledge that Jack Spaeglin has no business being responsible for another living creature.
And when bringing the puppy home meant hysterics from ten-year-old Kat, who desperately wanted her own dog? Well, itwas easy to tell her that Howl could be hers. He was just already named and living with me. In America. She took the idea and ran with it, even if she tries to change his name to something more distinguished at least once a month.
Ragnar:
Ég elska þig líka.
Homework?
Kitty Kat:
You are not my dad, Ragnar. I already finished.
Go away.
And just like that, I’ve been dismissed.
“B—” I get stuck on the first sound and feel the muscles in my throat tense. I force myself to swallow. Try to shift my jaw. “Br—”
It’s tempting to give up. To push the word down and pretend I never tried to say something in the privacy of my home. No one would ever know. But I would.
“B—” I try again. “B-brat.”
The media had been at the rink this morning, asking questions about the up-coming season. I’d avoided the cameras and microphones to the best of my ability. In part, because my stutter is always worse in front of reporters, strangers. Crowds. That’s not new. They avoid me for the same reason. Why waste time with the stammering man who can’t seem to look away from his feet when they can talk to our charismatic captain? Did that sound self-deprecating? It wasn’t meant to be. I prefer it that way, but today they were almost impossible to avoid. Everyone is eager to know if I’m back. And if so, if I’m good enough.
It’s the real reason I ducked into the trainers’ wing after practice. My hip felt good out there on the ice, even if Coach eased me in to play. It’s possible he thought I was going to push too hard. That I’d over-tax myself, causing even more damage to my tender ligaments. I don’t fault the line of thinking. It’s a misguided choice many players would make, especially early in their careers. A mistake born of the same desperation that had me avoiding the journalists circling the boards like hungry polar bears.
What if I’m not the same?
What if I never am?
I swallow hard, a sharp pain in my throat as I push the fear down into the pit of my stomach. I try to visualize it seeping down the length of my thighs, spiraling around my calves and then down into the hardwood floor below my bare feet. It’s the same trick Coach Alan taught me during our first summer intensive together. I was twelve, unable to place his directions into a language I could understand.
“Close your eyes,” he says, pushing his palm over the cage on my helmet. “Now, picture the rink-DON’T OPEN THEM,”
I snap my eyes shut and try to see the ice in front of me. Shiny, white, slick. Crisp blue and red lines.
“There’s a breakaway at the blue line,” Coach says, and I picture the big forward I’d faced off with that morning. The one from the state shaped like a mitten, smack dab in front of me, stick out as he taps the puck toward me. “Watch his shoulders and hips as he squares up for the shot.”
The imaginary center does exactly as Coach says.
“Keep your eye on the puck.” I almost hear the slap of the shot in my ears. “Slide in front of it, butterfly, close your glove.”
When I open my eyes, my glove is up as if I just caught the puck. For a moment, I’m surprised it’s empty.
“Left-hand larceny.” Coach slaps me on the shoulder. The force of it rocks me even through my shoulder pads. “Do that before a shoot out and I bet you steal the goal right out from under him.”
“You are f-fine.” I say the words slowly, allowing myself to pause and breathe between each one. Deep breaths to calm the pounding in my chest. I am fine. I am healed. Today was fine. Great actually. I even got to see…
My cheeks flame even just thinking about her.
And okay, the real reason I’d ducked into the trainers’ wing had less to do with avoiding the media. And everything to do with seeing…her.
Sadie Jones. Assistant trainer for the Arctic. The woman who was with me every step of my recovery this summer. Even as my heart thundered out of control, and I tried not to choke on my tongue. There’s no point in noticing her. None at all. When our captain Vic ended up with Tristan, or social media manager, the entire organization was in an uproar.And even then, the ring on Tristan’s finger meant there wasn’t much they could do about it.
If word got out that I had a thing for the trainer? They’d send her home with a pink slip faster than I could say “unrequited.” Even if by some miracle Sadie noticed me too, it would go nowhere, but I still can’t pass up a chance to see her. She had a crossword today. One all about my home country. I had to remind myself over and over not to read into the fact that she pulled it out and asked me for help. She was probably bored. She probably didn’t go hunt down a themed puzzle just for my benefit or to get my attention. She’s probably unaware that doing that damn crossword was—is—the highlight of every day we spent together. Well, the crossword and her smile.
I’m scroll through the search engine results, trying to remember how big Howl’s current bed is and what size he’d need next, when my phone rings in my hand.
