Page 96 of Left-Hand Larceny
This is what I wanted. Right? This entire charade with Sadie was to figure out how to show more personality, how to connect, how to stop hiding behind my pads and quiet answers. All because Edge Line dumped me after my injury.
Because I lost my edge.
Because they thought I was broken goods.
I pull off my undershirt and let it fall to the floor. They dropped me the second I was inconvenient. The second I stopped being shiny and unbreakable. And now they want back in? Why?
Because I’ve won three preseason games?
Because I learned how to caption a photo?
Because of Sadie.
She’s the reason. The reason I posted the shot of my jersey and nearly passed out watching the likes go up. Why I shared Howl. The reason my hip still works. She’s the reason I’ve felt alive again.
Like someone people want to see.
The locker room is mostly empty now. Just me and the ghost of the decision I haven’t made yet.
Part of me wants to say no. Just to prove I can. Just to prove I don’t need them.
But another part—the one that spent three months icing his own hip and praying his career wasn’t over—remembers how tight my chest got when I got that first email. When I didn’t know if I’d ever stand between the pipes again. I used to think the money was the scariest part.
But it wasn’t.
It was the idea that I wouldn’t be good again. At the only thing people had ever wanted from me, hockey. That I wouldn’t belong. That I’d disappear, and no one would notice. That I’d take my family down with me.
I sit there for a long time, staring at nothing, until the chill sinks into my spine and I finally move.
I gather my gear. Strip down. Head for the showers.
The water hits hot, and it helps.
I try to picture what Sadie would say if I told her.
She’d wrinkle her nose, probably. Ask what I want to do—not what I think I should.
“What do you want, Ragnar?” Her head tipped to the side, waiting for my response.
She’d say it’s okay to take back something you lost. And it’s okay to walk away from it too.
She’d remind me it’s not about proving myself to them. It’s about what I want—what I need—to prove to me.
I breathe in the steam and let the noise fade, remembering another fogged bathroom and a weight in my arms. I crank the temperature to glacial.
And when I step out, shivering and heart steadier, I know what I need. Even if I don’t know what I’m going to decide—I need to see her. We're still friends. After everything between us, she might be my best friend. The Sadie I know would want to hear about this email. She’d want to… I hope she’d want to…
Right?
I find her in the rehab room, head bent over the cabinet of tape rolls, like she’s searching for a specific one that doesn’t exist.
“H-hey,” I say, leaning in the doorway. “Got a-a s-sec?”
She jumps slightly, then straightens, a roll of pre-wrap clutched in both hands like a lifeline.
“Oh. Hi.” Her smile is tight, too bright. A fake. “Everything okay?”
“My knee’s bugging me.” It’s not a lie. Seeing her was a hit to the solar plexus. I need a minute to gather my thoughts. Might as well take care of my joints while I’m at it.
