Page 9 of Left-Hand Larceny

Being quiet has never bothered me much before right now.

Probably because it never affected anyone but me.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Kitty Kat

Ragnar?

Will you visit next summer?

Please?

I miss you too much.

I swallow the lump in my throat as I read my sister’s message. Social media isn’t important. Being charismatic/magnetic/whatever the current buzzword might be isn’t important.

Katrín is important. Amma is important.

Andfokkit all to hell, but my employment—my contracts—they affect my family.

Ragnar

I intend to

Miss you more.

Kitty Kat

Ragnar

I do not know what that means

Kitty Kat

Þú ert rassgat í bala

Ragnar

Djöfulsins rassgat

I laugh.This ill-informed devil’s asshole is going to teach himself how to be charismatic. How to be personable. Friendly. I pull up my phone’s browser app and navigate to the search engine. If the issue is that Edge Line thinks I don’t have enough reach… well, I’m going to prove them wrong. No big deal.

Thirty minutes later, I’m elbow deep in a question-and-answer forum, trying not to think about the fact that most of the site users are probably children. I might not be an expert, but “bring a special snack to school” doesn’t feel like the most applicable advice. Or maybe—I scroll down a few more answers—it could be. Hockey players are notoriously snack-oriented, except I never really learned to prepare any of my country’s cultural dishes. And my team isn’t the group I’m looking to impress. I left home at eleven. I maybe have known how to sharpen my skate blades and strap on a goalie kit, but I wasn’t a master in the kitchen.

I scroll through several more answers, feeling my hope leak out of me like I’ve been punched full of holes. The consensus is that making these kinds of changes isn’t worth it. I can appreciate the advice that people will like us for who we are, whether introverted or extroverted or allergic to social interactions overall, but none of that is helpful in my current situation. I close my browser, frustrated with the lack of any actual advice. I turn on the television, flipping channels until I find the Sports network. They’re talking about the start of preseason, and I watch highlights from last playoffs.

Fokkyou, Edge Line. I think the words hard enough that I hope they get a shiver down at their headquarters in Miami. I was on fire last year. My stats proved it. I’ve been in the list of top five goaltenders for the last three years running. On my television screen, I watch the puck slam into the palm of my glove, my hand closing around it. I tune out the announcers dissecting my play. My televised eyes flit up to the Jumbotron and I glower at the replay. Focused. In the zone. On top of the world.

I still am.

I have to be.

On the screen, the camera pans down the bench to Vic. He’s grinning, dropping a chin to his chest in a nod. The image jumps to his wife, Tristan, mouth twisted into a small smile as she watches from the box. I could ask them.

As the social media coordinator, Tristan could whip me into shape in a matter of days, probably. But it wouldn’t be enough. She catapulted Vic to stardom—or more stardom—with a few well-planned videos together. I even had a small part in one, explaining the gyrfalcon Katrín designed for my helmet. I know the clip gained me new followers. I know it earned me extra mail sent to the organization. And I hated every minute behind the camera. Every. Single. One.

I’m not naturally easy-going, or bubbly, like our captain. I’m also not gruffly standoffish like Robbie, our second-in-command. I’m just Ragnar. Words and I don’t get along. I always feel like I’m stuck watching a slow-motion replay while everyone else experiences things first hand. Tristan and Vic worked together because they’re both comfortable in front of crowds. Comfortable talking to a camera. Comfortable together.

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