“What happened at eight?”
I hesitate, wondering if I should answer. But something about the fading light, the empty lake, the strange bubble of intimacy we’ve created out here—it loosens my tongue. “My dad decided I had potential. And potential meant expectations.”
We glide in a figure eight, our breaths clouding between us. Sydney waits, not pushing, just listening. It’s disarming.
“He put me in every hockey program he couldfind. Private coaches. Special camps. Equipment most kids couldn’t dream of.” I pause, memories surfacing like bubbles under ice.
She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Is that why you spent so much time at our house? You were there practically every weekend, and most weeknights too. I always assumed it was to hang out with Jonah, but...”
The answer to that question cuts close to the bone.
“It was because of Jonah,” I say, then pause. “At first.”
“And later?”
I take a deep breath. “Later, it was because of your family. The whole vibe. Your house was always so... alive. People talking over each other at dinner. Your dad’s terrible jokes. Your mom trying to feed everyone within a ten-mile radius.”
“You liked our chaos?” Sydney sounds genuinely surprised.
“Compared to my house? Yeah.” I hold my arm, trying to ease the pressure on my shoulder. “Dinner at the Kingston mansion was a military operation. Dad critiquing my form from the last game, Mom pretending not to notice him going for drink number three, the constant pressure to be perfect.”
“I had no idea.” Her voice is tender. “I thought you had this charmed life.”
“From the outside, maybe. Big house, fancy cars, family name on half the buildings in town.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Inside was a different story.”
I realize I’m still holding her hand and finally release it, missing the warmth immediately. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump my daddy issues on the ice rink.”
“Don’t apologize.” She echoes my words from earlier. “It helps me understand you better.”
And that’s the problem. She’s beginning to understand me. To see past the walls I’ve spent years building.
We start skating again, and I fill the silence by saying, “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for helping me with my SATs. Senior year, when I was panicking about not getting a high enough score for U of Boise.”
“God, you were such a mess,” she says, laughter in her voice. “You kept falling asleep on my flash cards.”
“Because you insisted on studying at five in the morning!”
“That’s when the brain is most receptive to new information.”
“According to who?”
“Scientific studies,” she says primly. “And it worked, didn’t it? You got in.”
She’s right. I’d been shocked when the scores came back, high enough to secure my place at U of Boise even without the hockey scholarship. “Yeah, it worked. Thus the thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Though I seem to recall getting paid in pizza and gas money.”
“The pizza was by request. And the gas money was because your car was a piece of shit that guzzled fuel.”
“Don’t talk about Betsy that way! She got me through college.”
“Barely.”
Sydney skates quietly for a moment, finally saying, “It’s weird, isn’t it? How much our lives have been tangled together over the years. Even when we were fighting.”
I’ve never thought about it that way, but she’s right. For all our supposed animosity, she’s been a constant presence in my life. When I try to recall my most significant memories—good and bad—she’s there in the background of most of them. Not always front and center, but there.
“Yeah. Weird.”
