Page 58

He's leaning on the wall across from the door with Priya. He's taller than I thought. Thinner than in his pictures. There's a scar on the side of his neck I've never seen, white and puckered, from the surgery. He's holding a cookie.

He's talking to Wes. Wes has his hand on his shoulder, and his face is red, and I think maybe he's been crying.

Then Nico looks past Wes and sees me.

His whole face breaks open.

"SWEDE!"

I can't do anything. I just stand there. He pushes off the wall and crosses the hall in three steps, careful, still a little stiff in his neck, and he grabs me.

It's a real hug. Both arms. He hits me so hard Dane's bag slides off my shoulder and lands on the floor with a thud. He's laughing into my ear and holding on, and his hand is on the back of my head, the way you hold somebody you've been worried about.

"You scored," he's saying. "You scored on those pricks, oh my God, did you see Marrack's face, I think I saw him die—you look like shit, man, you're too skinny, are you eating the walleye? Are you eating anything?"

"Nico," I say, into his shoulder. Quiet. "Nico, please."

"Thirty-four seconds," he says. "On the foam pad. Thirty-four. I was going to send you the video, but I wanted to tell you in person⁠—"

"Nico."

He pulls back. He's still holding me by the arms.

"What," he says, laughing. "What, I'm not allowed to⁠—"

He stops.

He's looking past me. Over my shoulder.

I already know. I don't need to turn around. I can feel it on the back of my neck like a draft from an open window.

I turn around anyway.

Dane is standing in the door of the room.

He's in his game-day suit, his tie still loose around his collar, his hair wet. He's got his phone in one hand. He's looking at us. At his brother's hands on my arms. At his bag on the floor.

His face doesn't move.

That's how I know. I've seen it from a hundred feet away every morning since September. The stillness. Everything else in his body stopping so his eyes can do the work. The way he reads the puck coming off the blade, the half second before, when he already knows where it's going.

He's reading this. He's seeing all of it. Every text. Every three a.m. Every how's the new guy. The middle name. The fish. The scholarship nobody could explain. I can see him putting it together in the time it takes a puck to cross the crease.

The hallway's gone quiet. Wes hasn't moved. Priya's hand is over her mouth. A little kid in a Wardens jersey is staring up at all of us with a Sharpie in his fist.

"D," Nico says. His voice has gone very small. "D, I can⁠—"

"Nico," Dane says.

Just that. Just his brother's name. Not loud.

Nico lets go of my arms.

Dane doesn't look at me. That's the worst part. He doesn't even look at me. He looks at Nico, and he says, quietly, "Parking lot," and he walks past us both down the hall, toward the doors, and out.

Nico looks at me.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Theo. I'm so sorry, I didn't—I wasn't thinking, I just saw you and⁠—"