Oakley’s fingers find mine for half a heartbeat, and then they’re gone, her hand back on the crutch handle. It grounds me more than the ice did.
At home, the quiet is gentler than it’s been in weeks. I set the alarm and check the doors without pretending I’m not checking them. Aubrey flops at the counter, and I scramble eggs whileOakley leans on the island, ankles crossed, watching me like she’s making sure I’m actually eating, too. When we finally begin to unwind, Aubrey brushes her teeth without being asked and mumbles around the toothbrush that she’s “not tired at all.” She’s asleep in under three minutes with the unicorn under her arm. I stand in her doorway long enough to see the steady rise and fall of her chest under the blanket.
In the living room, Oakley has a blanket dragged over her legs, boot propped on a pillow like her doctor ordered. There’s still glitter on her cheek, and I can’t stop myself from wiping it away. I sit on the edge of the coffee table across from her and drop the ice pack on my knee. The shock makes me hiss through my teeth.
“Baby,” she says softly, the old nickname slipping out before she can catch it. Her eyes flash an apology.
I shake my head. “I like it when you call me that,” I say. “Always have.”
She studies me for a long time. “Where’d you put it?”
“What?”
“The extra weight you’ve been carrying around.”
I know what she means. Anger, fear, grief—pick your poison. I glance toward the window where the porch light throws a soft shadow on the steps then look back to her. “On the forecheck,” I say. “In the corners. In the net. I left it out there as best I could.
Her smile is sad and proud at the same time. “That’s my captain.”
Her words slam me in the solar plexus, same way they did above the glass. I don’t correct her.
I check my phone before I can stop myself. No unknown numbers. No alerts from the cameras, but a text message from Rooker pops up.
Rooks: Better send me that sweet sauce again on Tuesday
Silas: Close your blade, idiot. It wasn’t sauce.
Rooks: *string of middle-finger emojis*
Another text comes in as I’m sliding the phone away.
My Girl: Walked all those stairs for you, and you barely broke a sweat. Thinking maybe you should change that.
I snort and look up at Oakley. She’s pretending she didn’t just text me from six feet away. I reply anyway.
Silas: You got it, Katibug. Don’t freak when you can’t feel your legs.
Her head tips back on the cushion, and she laughs quiet, so she doesn’t wake Aubs. “You played your game,” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer, the word like a breath I finally let out, ice sweating on my knee, their soft sounds filling the house. “I did.”
I don’t know what happens when the night is over and the cameras are just little red dots again. I don’t know when—or if—Brian tries to make good on a threat he can’t back with a court.
I know this: when the world narrowed, I didn’t swing at a ghost. I put my shoulder down and skated through it.
And for tonight, that’s enough.
Chapter 33
Oakley Kate
Ipad into the kitchen the next morning, careful on the crutch, and find an adorable sight at the stove. Silas flips pancakes while Aubrey perches on the counter in his hoodie, swinging her legs and humming something that might be the goal horn from last night.
He looks different in the daylight. Lighter, maybe. The bruised shadows under his eyes haven’t vanished, but the hard edge in his shoulders has softened, replaced by something I can’t name.
“Morning,” I say.
Aubrey grins. “We’re making breakfast for the winner!”
