Page 8 of Left-Hand Larceny
My agent’s number stares up at me and I sigh. I drag my thumb across the screen, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Halló.”
“Ragnar, how are you?”
I don’t answer.
“I know you don’t like to talk on the phone, but I only had a moment. I’m stuck on the damn n throughway again. ‘Everything in L.A. is thirty minutes,’ my ass. More like three goddamn hours.”
I pull air in through my nose and purse my lips.
“I had a message from Carl over at Edge Line. Wanted to send it through ASAP.”
My chest aches and my stomach twists. Another deep breath. If it was good news, this wouldn’t be a phone call. It would be one of our standard video meetings. Where Angelo tells me the news and I type my responses and questions back to him.
“It’s nothing personal. They just aren’t comfortable extending another year without knowing you’re back in the game.”
But I am back in the game.
“It’s hip injuries. They’re tough Rags, I don’t have to tell you that. They don’t want to tie up a sponsorship contract with someone who won’t see ice time.”
I know he’s just repeating what they said, but his words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. My lungs deflate like popped balloons.
“I went…went…went t-to p-p-p…” I take a deep breath, clenching and unclenching my fists to loosen the tightness in my jaw. “Prac—”
“Hey, it’s okay.”I hate being interrupted. “They’re wrong. We both know that. You’re gonna be back on top this year. I have no doubts, it was just shit timing that you got pancaked atthe end of the season. They haven’t had a chance to see you in action yet.”
I suppose his faith in me is heartwarming. It also feels like an elephant sitting in the middle of my chest. I’d be lying if my return to the ice wasn’t weighing on me. Practice is one thing, even pre-season. The play is different, sure I’m taking shots, but preseason is a chance for each team to work out their kinks. Figure out who skates best with whom. Make changes to their lines, their systems, the players. It’s about winning, yes, coming out strong to set the tone for the entire season, but it isn’t the same level of play.
Like the all-star break. It’s more of a showcase of skills than the regular battle for division dominance.
I wish I had the same faith in myself as Angelo does. Or coach, or Vic, or… Sadie.
“You focus on getting a good start to the season, keep that hip in line, and I’ll set up another sit-down with them around December. That should give them enough time to eat their words. I did try to get them to extend on a probationary basis, give you the benefit of the doubt…”
But they wouldn’t.Why should they? I’ve only been partnered with them for the last three years.
“Look, they just don’t think you have enough reach on social media to carry the campaign if…”He trails off.
If I can’t play.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“I’ll put some feelers out, but I think our best option right now is to prove them wrong. I have to jump off, but I’ll send you an email rundown by the end of the day. Shoot back any questions you might have and we can set up another meeting.”
I grunt my goodbye as the line goes dead, then I carefully slide my phone into the pocket of my team-issued sweats. Once my hands are empty, I fist them. Hard. I take a deep breath atthe welcome sting of my nails biting into the calloused skin of my palms.
“Fokk.”
Reach on social media.
I’ve spent enough time with Tristan to know what that means. I’m not charismatic enough. I don’t post enough. Don’t engage. I just don’t like to.
When I first moved to the states, I remember feeling lost. I had a very basic grasp of English thanks to the Icelandic education system, but it still felt like there was a wall between me and everyone I met. I didn’t understand their turns of phrase. I didn’t understand the customs, or the way everyone seemed to know what to do and how to act. Foreign. Alien. And I still know I had it easier than any kid who didn’t look like me. Red hair and freckles come with some bullying, but I “looked” like I fit.
I’m sure some kids would have assimilated better. Would have studied the way people interacted with each other, practiced their conversations in a mirror, but it was easier for me to focus on the sport I knew. The place I excelled. If I was a powerhouse on the ice, adults didn’t seem to care that I added extra syllables and pauses to my words. That they got stuck in my throat. My teammates didn’t care either, not once they realized I could help them win.
Not sure if any of that is a blessing or a curse. Did I get teased for my lack of verbal fluency? Not to my knowledge, or at least not without a hoard of supporters willing to burn the world to the ground. Then again, maybe if I’d been more of an inconvenience someone would have noticed. Maybe along with potential mocking would have come a helping hand.
