Page 76 of Left-Hand Larceny
It’s only when we pull into the rink’s empty lot, the building dark and comforting, like some enormous sleeping creature, that I finally exhale.
I don’t know why he brought me here. But I’m glad. Home isn’t an option right now. And neither is pretending I’m okay. Not with him. Ragnar sees right through me.
The evening is a blur.
Spags grabbing us. Ragnar’s hand at my back. The air shifting around me like it’s too thick, too tight. My heels clicking across marble as we bolted through some service exit, out into night and quiet and cold.
And then the car.
And now this.
The rink.
It’s dark except for the row of security lights overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete and the rubber mats leading toward the ice. I sit on the bench in the locker room, hands in my lap, still wearing my gala dress and trying not to breathe too loudly.
Ragnar’s in front of me, squatting to pull open a gear trunk in the practice room. His hands are gentle as he sorts through the contents, but his jaw is tight. Focused. His tie is gone, sleeves rolled up. He’s quiet. Too quiet. I clear my throat.
“Are you mad at me?”
He glances up, brow furrowed. “What? No.”
“You haven’t said anything since we got here.”
Technically, since we left the gala.
“I’m getting your size.”
My size?
Before I can ask, he pulls a set of shoulder pads out of the box. He unstraps it, adjusts something, grabs the next piece. His movements are deliberate. Kind. Still quiet. I blink hard and stare at my knees.
He thinks I’m upset about Christian. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just—
“Are you sure you’re not mad?”
Ragnar sets the gear down and crosses to me. He kneels, rests one hand on my ankle. “Why do you think I’m mad?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “People usually are. When I… do something wrong.”
“You didn’t.”
I want to believe him. But my chest is tight and my skin feels too small. The panic is rising—bubbling just under the surface. I hate this feeling. The pressure. The expectation. The fear that if I don’t smooth it all over fast enough, I’ll lose something important. Someone.
“It’s just,” I start, “my parents are going to be furious. And he works with them. And I shouldn’t have dragged you into it. I just—God, I hate when people are mad at me.”
I press my hands against my thighs and dig my nails in.
“It’s like… an itch I can’t scratch. It’s in my ribs. My stomach. My spine. Like I’m supposed to fix it, and I don’t even know how.”
Ragnar doesn’t speak for a second. Then he says, softly, “Is that why you smiled at him all night?”
I look away. Shame flooding me.
“I am not judging you for protecting your peace.”
Great, he’s not, but I might be.
“It’s easier,” I murmur. “To give people the answer they want. To behave. To be what they expect. Otherwise they… they might leave.”
