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“You forgot me.”
“I came back.”
“You forgot me.”
“Yet here you are.”
He shakes his head and buckles his seat belt. “Some teammate.”
I turn the music up before he can start asking questions.
We aren’t even late, and once I’m at the rink, things get easier because I know exactly what I’m supposed to do there. Get dressed. Tape my stick. Warm up. Skate. Listen to Brennan.
There’s a routine to all of it that doesn’t leave much room for anything else.
I still screw up little things I normally wouldn’t.
I’m slow getting into position during one of the drills, and when Jordan asks what I want for lunch, I answer something about the power play.
He stares at me. “What?”
“I asked if you wanted chicken or pasta.”
“Chicken.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He keeps looking at me, but I skate away before he can turn it into a conversation.
Coach doesn’t call me on any of it, which I’m grateful for. By the time the game starts, I’ve got myself under control again, and weirdly enough, I play well.
I always do on this day.
Maybe it’s because hockey is the one thing that can still shut everything else up. Once I’m on the ice, there’s no room for the lake or Mom’s phone call or the fact that Wayne should be twenty-three now.
There’s only the puck and the next shift and the guy coming at me along the boards.
I finish with two assists, we get the win, and nobody watching from the stands would have any reason to think there’s something wrong with me.
Quinn isn’t here tonight because she has a work deadline she couldn’t move. Usually, I’d be disappointed she couldn’t make it.
Tonight, I’m relieved.
That realization sits badly with me while I’m getting changed, especially when I open my locker and see her name on my phone.
Quinn:
Good game.
A second message comes through before I can answer.
Quinn:
But are you okay?
I stare at it. How the hell does she do that?
