My beer was still half-full, and the bar was still warm. That Oscar swam in lazy circles. Steady. Unbothered.
I took my time finishing the bottle before pulling on my jacket and stepping back out into the cold.
The walk home was quieter than the walk there.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Team group texts.
Varga:Who's ready to fucking GO tomorrow
Rook:This guy
Pratt:Early skate 8am sharp
I scrolled through the replies. Thumbed past the hype and the trash talk, looking for one name that wasn't there.
I pocketed my phone.
The cold had sharpened while I was inside. I walked faster, hands deep in my jacket pockets, and I kept thinking about thewater beading on Kieran's forearms when he'd turned from the sink. He didn't notice, but I did.
Did I belong?
All I could think about was how Kieran had looked at me, like he already knew the answer.
Chapter two
Kieran
The arena was mine after midnight.
No media or coaches. My teammates weren't around to pretend not to watch when I took a pass or missed one. Only me, the rink, and the low hum of refrigeration units keeping the ice at precisely 22 degrees Fahrenheit.
I'd been skating for an hour, maybe more.
My edges bit clean. I took a tight turn at the far boards and accelerated through center ice. Stopped at the blue line, with my blades perpendicular and weight perfectly distributed. The marks I left were precise. Controlled.
The building settled around me. Somewhere overhead, a ventilation system cycled.
My phone buzzed on the bench.
I ignored it and skated another lap. Clean stops. Perfect edges. My blades sang against the ice.
The phone lit up again.
Agent, probably. Or my father's "advisor"—same thing, different area code. Checking in. Which meant reminding methat extension talks were approaching and everyone was very confident about how it would all go.
They were right to be confident.
I was the perfect machine they'd designed. For one more season, I'd follow the script. One more year of being inevitable, and then I'd be gone.
My plan was clean. Detailed. I'd accounted for all the variables and had contingencies in place. Graduate program applications waited in a file on my laptop. Scripps. The University of Miami. URI if I wanted cold water.
I stopped at center ice and let my skates settle. Stable. Predictable. Everything in balance.
Heading home would make the most sense. Sleep. Hydration. Mental preparation for opening night.
Instead, I thought about Heath Donnelly standing at the bar with his shoulders tight and his eyes on the Oscar named Melvin. I hadn't planned to talk to him. I'd finished fixing the blocked filter and checked the tank one last time.
The owner asked if I wanted a drink on the house. I'd been about to say no.
