Page 16 of Left-Hand Larceny
“My what?” She looks down. “Oh. I didn’t even notice.”
I don’t wait for her to answer. I kneel in front of her and take the strands in my hands. They’re tiny. Delicate. I pull just enough that her shoe sits snug on her foot. Only about an eighth of the strength it takes to lace up my skates.
Sadie isn’t tiny like Tristan, but she’s smaller than me. She has natural curves where I have game-honed muscle. I need to be careful with her. Always. I make two loops and knot them together. Bunny ears. The same way I taught my sister during the summer before she started compulsory school.
I double knot the laces, checking that each side is the same length, that they’re nice and snug, anything to prolong the moment. It’s selfish of me. She has places to go. Other people to see. I can’t just waste her time here staring at her shoes.
Ertu algjör hálfviti?Say goodbye, my brain demands.Let. Her. Leave.
“I c-c-can h-help.” I say the words to her shoes.
Þegiðu!
Her brows pull together and her head tips to the side, but her smile doesn’t falter. She drops her gaze down to where I’m still crouched by her feet.
“You already did.” She wiggles the toe of her shoe. “See?”
She’s so cute I forget to be embarrassed at my lack of clarity.
“I c-can help. W-w-with the m-math.”
“Oh.”
Her mouth curves into a perfect little circle before she sinks her front teeth into the cushion of her bottom lip. The temperature in the gym has jumped ten degrees. I drop my eyes to stare at the smooth golden skin of her shin. Her legs are so… long. I want to wrap my hand around the back of her ankle. I can’t.
“I d-d-don’t talk well, b-but I…I….I can do..do m-math.”
“Ragnar,”
“I…I m-might not h-have a m-master’s degree, but I d-did take some c-c-college-level classes.” I did a lot of independent study as a child.
That’s the thing about being recruited to the league training programs as young as I was. I was pretty much left to my own devices. Sure, I stayed with a host family. They drove me to practice and kept me fed and sheltered, but I was mostly on my own.
Learning a new language was hard. Harder when I missed frequent classes for tournaments and training camps.Hardestwhen words stopped coming right. It started with long pauses between words before I could ask a question. The words sticking in my seized up throat. Then I repeated words. Syllables. Single sounds. Once, when I was a bantam, a kid on the team bus ate a chocolate peanut butter Christmas tree and his throat and tongue swelled up fast. When things get stuck. Words, syllables, sounds. It’s like my brain feels the way Tommy looked when he couldn’t gasp in air.
Math made sense. The numerals might have different names, but the concept was the same. The rules still applied, and most of it was handed to me in writing, a pencil my way of giving a response. When I got to the end of my education, I was doing mostly independent studies, anyway. It was easy to add on courses from the local colleges. Most of the teachers didn’t mind if I missed class, as long as I completed assignments on time. It’s not like I had a social life to worry about, just travel for games.
“College l-level… classes.” I chance a quick glance up and accidentally meet her eyes. I stay. “I h-help some of…of…of the guys track their st-st-stats.”
“I don’t know,” she hedges and suddenly it hits me. I’m literally holding on to her. I’m keeping her here. In the gym. I’m just one player on her team, but we both know who will get the boot if she feels I’m crossing a line. And it won’t be me.
I push myself back, sitting hard on my ass. I can’t look at her. I can’t do this. Interact with people. I misread everything. I react wrong. I ruin everything,
“Sorri.” I mumble the apology, my words reverting to my native tongue without conscious thought. “Fyrirgefðu mér.”
“Hey.” She’s kneeling in front of me, cool hands pressed to my overheated cheeks. “It’s okay. Let’s go back to English, though, okay?”
English. Right.
Got it.
…
“I—” deep breath. “I—”
The words won’t come. I swallow, feeling the stinging ache in my throat as if something lodged in my trachea.
“I—” didn’t mean to overstep. Make you uncomfortable. Push boundaries.
