Chapter one
Heath
One, two, three—breathe—one, two—
It wasn't working.
I sat on my kitchen floor with my back against the cabinet and my gear lined up on the counter above me like somebody else's life. Stick. Skates. Pads. All of it ready. None of it helping.
Nineteen thousand people were going to watch tomorrow to see if I belonged. I already knew how fast a mistake becomes a story.
I reached for my phone and called Thunder Bay.
Pickle answered mid-sentence.
"—because Junothreatenedto edit me out of the podcast intro again, and I told her if she does, I'm filing a formal grievance with Hog, who believes in justice and also thinks Juno's voice sounds like a clarinet being murdered—"
The knot in my gut loosened half a turn.
"You didn't say hello."
"Hello's for people with time to waste. I've got intelligence." The sound of chewing. Definitely eating. "Biscuit slept throughyesterday's full team meeting. Entire thing. Didn't move. Didn't twitch. Then Desrosiers opened a protein bar, and Biscuit sat up like we shocked him with a cattle prod. Hog claims it proves he has elite instincts."
The corner of my mouth pulled upward. "That's not what elite instincts mean. Biscuit's a dog."
"That's exactly what I said! But Hog's knitting now—a scarf, apparently—and he refuses to be contradicted while holding pointy weapons." More chewing. "Oh, and Jake tried implementing a hydration accountability system. Lasted nine minutes before I converted it into a drinking game. Evan confiscated something I brought into the room. I'm legally prohibited from specifying what."
"Legally prohibited by who?"
"My conscience. Also Juno, who says I need to stop trying to sound like a true-crime narrator when I call people on the phone."
"You don't sound like that."
"See? Growth."
My shoulders relaxed.
"So," Pickle said, swallowing, "what's going on? You don't call this late unless you're dying or you can't sleep, and since you're breathing, I'm eliminating option one."
I leaned my head back against the cabinet. The counter edge pressed into my shoulder blade.
"Can't sleep."
"Opening night nerves?"
"Yeah. Something like that."
The tone of Pickle's voice changed. Focused, not frantic. "What kind of nervous?"
I hesitated.
"Not the playing-badly kind."
"Then what kind?"
I shifted the skates half an inch. "The kind where you screw up and everybody sees it."
Pickle was silent for three beats.
