“Ky.”
“Really,” she says. “I’ll talk to her, make sure she knows that it’s not your fault?—”
I close my eyes, exhale, trying to shove down the red haze at the edges of my vision, to keep control of my temper.
Fuck, after all I’ve done for my sister, she told Joey?—
No.
Not after allI’vedone. I didn’t almost kill that motherfucker because of Kylie—or not entirely anyway.
It was me, my anger, my inability to protect her from what was done to her.
“Don’t worry,” she says, dropping her hand to her side and coming close, staring at me with earnest blue eyes. “I’ll fix this. I promise, I’ll fix it.”
I open my mouth to tell her that I’ve got it.
But I don’t get the words out.
Because the lights go down and the national anthem plays and then the puck drops.
And she doesn’t have time to fix it.
And neither do I.
Over the nextthree hours I manage to convince Kylie that I’m not mad, that I’ll handle Joey—with care—and that everything is going to be fine.
The Sierra win handily, but between all that convincing and the anger gnawing at my insides (how could she not fucking talk to me, how could she skip out this morning, how could she leave me in the dark?) I’m hardly paying attention to the action on the ice.
I distantly hear the crowd roar for the Sierra’s goals, blearily stare at the Jumbotron to track the score, but it’s not at the forefront of my consciousness.
Not at all.
After the game ends and I’ve walked Ky to her car, she pauses, snags my hand, squeezing it tight. “Are you sure you’re?—?”
“I’m sure,” I say, nudging her toward the open driver’s side door. “I’m fine. It’ll all be fine.”
“But—”
“Ky,” I murmur, “I’ll just give her time to wrap up her post-game and then we’ll talk.”
My sister nibbles at the corner of her mouth.
“I promise.”
“I love you,” she whispers. “And I’m so?—”
“Christ, kid,” I grumble, but do it gently because she needs it. “Get out of here and let me fix this.”
Her eyes hold mine. “Because you can fix anything.”
My lungs spasm, worry eating its way through my temper.
I fucking hope she’s right.
“Drive carefully,” I tell her. “Then text me when you get home.”
She nods and climbs into her car before backing out of the spot and heading for the exit.
