Page 78 of Left-Hand Larceny
“This was home for me. For a long time,” Ragnar says.
I look at him.
He’s not smiling anymore.
“I came to the States when I was eleven. Already showing promise in goal. My parents wanted me in better programs. Better competition. Not a lot of kids play back home. So they sent me here.”
He’s being modest. He was scouted as a kid. That’s incredible. And difficult.
“To live with a host family?”
He nods. “They were kind. Mostly. But they weren’t my family.”
He glances at the boards. “I missed them. My Amma. My little sister. I missed their voices. But I didn’t call. Not enough. Not when I should’ve.”
He swallows.
“I was eighteen when they had another baby. Newly drafted. I was angry, hurt. Thought they were replacing me.”
My heart aches for him.
“And then…” he pauses. “They died. A car accident. All three of them. Only Kat survived. It took hours for rescue workers to even find the car. She was strapped in with our parents’ corpses, Sadie.”
My breath catches.
“My host family didn’t tell me right away. There was a big tournament, and they thought… well, I missed the funeral.”
“Ragnar,” I whisper.
“I was furious. At everyone. At myself. At the whole damn world. But I knew if I said the wrong thing, if I blew up or melteddown, I could lose it all. My visa. My place in the program. Everything.”
He exhales.
“It was selfish. I was worried about my future, not Kat’s. Not Amma’s. I should have been on the first plane back to Reykjavik, but I didn’t. I kept going. Because even with all that pain… I love hockey. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”
I reach for his glove and squeeze it.
This time he squeezes back.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah. Me too.”
The silence stretches between us.
Then I say, “I used to think if I was bad, my parents would send me back.”
He blinks. “They told you that?”
“No. Never. But they didn’t have to. I was always… aware. That I didn’t match. That I didn’t belong to them the same way they belonged to each other.”
“Sadie—”
“I just… I was afraid to ask.”
He steps forward.
“I told my preschool class I was adopted. For show and tell. When I was four. A couple of the other kids told me it wasn’t cool, it wasn’t a fun fact. It meant my parents didn’t want me.”
