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“You’re right,” I finally say after a lengthy silence. “Maybe you did have some right.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, waiting for what I know has to come next. Because if he really did look at my browser history, he’ll know about Cupid’s Court. Jamie stops pushing me, and I use my legs, kicking into the air, to keep the momentum we’ve built.
When I was a little girl, I used to reach out with one hand, thinking I was close enough to grab a star and pull it back down with me. Feeling nostalgic, I let go with one hand and reach into the nothingness, and just like all those years ago, I come up empty-handed.
“I know how you’re making money,” Jamie says, his voice gruff. “And before you ask, yes, I had some of my colleagues look into the place. It’s… reputable.” Judging by his tone, those words were hard for him to say.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay,” he repeats. Then he wordlessly starts pushing me again.
This is one of the things I love the most about Jamie; we don’t need words to have a conversation or reach an understanding. My ‘okay’ was me asking if he got everything he wanted off his chest. His ‘okay’ was his way of letting me know we’re cool, and that he’ll never bring it up again.
We stay out in the garden until Mom calls us back inside, and as we make our way back to the house, Jamie assures me he’ll never tell them anything I don’t want them to know. I know my big brother will take my secrets to the grave, but I also know there’s at least one that’ll come out, eventually.
Fet won’t remain a secret forever.
Mickey
The ice is a sheet of glass beneath my skates, and my breath hangs in the air like smoke as I push off, muscles coiling and flexing. Coach’s voice echoes across the rink, rough and ragged as sandpaper. “Pick it up, Sabertooths! You’re skating like you don’t want to win!”
I chuckle, reveling in the burn in my thighs and the chill biting at my face. I catch Soren’s eye as he guards the net, his stance wide, a fortress of muscle and focus. He nods once, short and sharp.
“Power play practice!” Coach bellows, and we snap into formation like pieces on a chessboard gearing up for a strategic siege.
“Alright, boys,” I bark to my line, “let’s show the old man we got some fire left.”
We drill the plays we’ve been perfecting all season. Sawyer takes position as the forward, his stick ready to snipe any opening. I slide back into left defense, watching the puck like it’s the pulse point of the game. My mind flickers through strategies; when to hold the line, when to fall back, and when to risk it all on a breakaway.
Sawyer feeds me the puck, and I let it dance at the end of my stick, skating closer to the goal before I slap it back to him. Or at least that’s what I intend to do, but at the last moment, I change my mind and instead send it hurling toward the goal. It ricochets off the boards with a satisfying smack, straight to Sawyer who’s now parked in front of the net, screening Soren.
“Come on, Davis, you can hit harder than that,” Coach growls, though I can tell by the twitch at the edge of his mouth he’s pleased.
“Saving my best shots for the game,” I retort, grinning despite the tension that coils in my gut.
“Your best shot better damn well be tomorrow night,” Coach shoots back, but there’s no real heat in it. Just the grizzled concern that comes from a lifetime on the ice.
“Let’s run the delay breakout,” I call out, signaling the guys. We need to be seamless, unpredictable. Hockey isn’t just about brute force; it’s chess at ninety miles an hour.
“Take a break, guys. You’ve earned it,” Coach hollers.
No one wastes any time, immediately skating over to the bench. My breath fogs in front of me as I rip off my helmet and let out a grunt. Soren’s already there, chugging water like it’s the elixir of life. Meanwhile, Sawyer… the bastard looks like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. Show-off.
“Man, Coach is riding us hard today,” I huff, dropping onto the bench beside them. The cold seeps through the fabric of my gear, but it’s a good kind of chill, one that says you’ve been pushed to your limits.
“Think he’s got a bet going on how many of us puke before it’s over?” Sawyer jokes, his lips curling up into a smirk.
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Soren adds with a shake of his head. His eyes are still focused, still intense.
“I blame it all on you, Mickey,” Sawyer nudges me with his elbow, and I can’t help but laugh.
“You always do,” I grin. “Just because I have one annual breakdown everything becomes my fault.”
At the mention of my pity party in January, Sawyer becomes serious. “You’re okay now?” I roll my eyes at him.
Okay, so maybe I can understand his concern since I keep talking about not caring about any game but the inevitable one against the Jersey Jags later this season. And it’s true, but it’s also not. Every game matters.
I know Sawyer’s wanted to ask about it. But the only times we’ve seen each other privately, Lucia was there as well and we don’t discuss each other’s shit with her around.
