Page 4 of Grief & Glitter

“I mean, I don’t really know him, but he works at the arena with our equipment manager, who is his dad.”

“What was interesting about him?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “I don’t know. He has red hair. Blue eyes, and he wears eyeliner.” Dr. Ellison’s mouth curved, waiting for more. I thought about how pretty he was, and how he’d gripped those chairs as if his life depended on it, apologized before there’d even been a collision, and seemed lonely standing in front of the art guys. “I think he seemed…” No, I didn’t want to start with what I thought—she should know more about him. “He’s the kid who tried to steal Walker’s stuff, and Walker hit him, way back. Do you remember that?”

“I do. So, he’s a kid? He’s young?”

“Younger than me probably, but no, not a kid. I shouldn’t call him that.”

She paused. “And you started to say that he seemed…?”

“Yeah. I did. Lonely maybe?”

“You could try making friends with him?”

I balked at that. I had the guys in the art group, and I had the team around me. I didn’t need other friends who would get to know me, find out what a fuck up I was, and then exit stage left.

The rink was empty when I got there way too early. Optional skate on game day meant no coaches pacing the benches with clipboards, no reporters hanging around hoping to catch a quote, no crowds pressing against the glass. Just the steady hum of the compressors beneath the ice, the bite of cold air creeping through the corridor, and the smell of rubber mats, sharpened steel, and old hockey gear.

I let myself in through the equipment entrance, my pass chirping green against the reader before the heavy door clicked open. The hallway beyond echoed with the hollow sound of my footsteps, every noise carrying farther in an empty arena than it ever did on game night. Most of the lights were off, leaving long stretches of shadow broken by pools of fluorescent light over the work areas.

Ryan was kneeling beside the home net, the one I circled every morning skate, lengths of white cord coiled around his sneakers and spilling across the concrete floor. Half the netting hung loose against the frame while he worked another section through the steel with a long net needle, his head bent over the job, a crease between his eyebrows as he concentrated, one hand pulling the cord tight while the other searched for the next opening.

With one hand on the door frame, I stood there and watched him work and didn’t move. Restringing wasn’t something you handed to just anyone. Get the tension wrong, and it wouldn’t show until a puck found the gap mid-game, and he was doing it to the Copperheads’ net. He wasn’t his dad, and it worried me a little that someone untested was working on our nets.

He hadn’t clocked me yet. I could still turn around, go find the ice, let him finish this, and not interfere. Except I’d already spotted the mistake, and pointing it out wasn’t exactly the way to win friends and influence people. But⁠—

“You missed a loop.”

His head jerked up so fast I thought he’d hit himself with the needle. Instead, he blinked at me, one hand pressed against the frame of the goal as he let out a shaky breath.

“Taft!” He laughed under it, more at himself than at me. “You made me jump.”

“Sorry, it’s just…” I leaned over and pointed toward the section he’d just tied. “There.”

His eyes followed my finger. He frowned for a moment before groaning softly. “So I have.”

He eased the cord back through the previous loop, undoing two minutes of work without complaint.

“I’ve already done two of these today,” he said. “They’re all starting to blur into one.”

Say something useful.

“If you miss one loop, the whole thing pulls crooked.”

Heat crept up my neck the second it left my mouth. Smooth, Gideon.

Ryan nodded, threading the needle through the mesh again and drawing the cord tight before glancing up at me. Then he smiled to himself.

“Dad always says nobody notices when you’ve done the job right.” He tugged another section into place and gave it an experimental pull. “They only notice when a puck goes through a gap. He lives in fear of things not being up to his standards.”

“He’s a good man, and an even better equipment manager.”

Ryan laughed quietly. “Then you know.”

Normally I’d have had an excuse by now, something about warming up or checking my skates, and been halfway down the corridor before anyone noticed. But the doctor said I should make friends and now was as good a time as any. So, I stayed.

Still, I was six-four, and Ryan was already itty-bitty down there on his knees, and standing over him like that just made me feel every inch of my own bulk, looming. I settled onto one knee beside the frame, resting an arm across it while he worked. I wasn’t helping. He didn’t need help. My hands stayed where they were, and standing there watching felt less awkward than walking away.