“In—” Zach clears a croak from his voice and tries again. “In here.”
His eyes drift to the screen as he types his name into the search bar. Hundreds of videos pop up, both games and media interviews. Zach’s a favorite in the podcast circuit because he couldn’t find a canned answer if he tried. The idea of being anything other than his natural endearing self doesn’t cross his mind.
It’s what I like most about him.
“What are you two up to?” Kennedy’s gaze darts between us. It’s the first time I’ve seen her wear anything other than jeans or leggings and a top without Alexei Volkov’s name on it.
“I was showing Finley highlights.”
Kennedy drops onto the couch between us. There’s plenty of room because Zach fused himself to the opposite side from me. She gestures toward the screen. “Let’s see it, then we can hit the road.”
“You have somewhere to be?” I ask.
Zach looks at Kennedy.
“Where would you be without me? Lunch with my dad, remember?”
“Oh right.”
“Finley, you should join us,” Kennedy says.
I wave a hand. “I’ve got homework. And we just ate.”
Kennedy sighs and looks at Zach. “Really?”
“Come on, you know I’ll eat again.”
Zach chooses a five-minute video calledBest Briggsy Moments ON ICE, which features him faking out a goalie to score, gliding along the boards arms in the air in celebration. It’shard to look away from him on the ice with his talent and the infectious energy he brings to the game.
I understand why he questioned my love for gymnastics when his love for hockey looks like this.
“I’m so glad we drafted you, roomie,” Kennedy says with affection and pride.
“Way to show off, Calder. I hope to see you play in person one day.”
Zach sports an adorably self-conscious smile when he replies. “Oh, you will.”
15
Zach
“You ready for this?”Matt asks when I climb into his truck for my first day of practice since my injury.
Threelongweeks without hockey.
“You have no fucking idea,” I reply with an exhale of breath. “I wish I couldactuallypractice.”
I’m in the next stage of concussion protocol, so I can skate on my own in a yellow contact-free jersey, which I’ll sport for the foreseeable future. It’s a tease, getting on the ice but not being able to play. Still, I’m relieved to be one step closer, and that my recovery is moving in the right direction.
“It’ll come,” he says. “You’re back fast for a hit like that.”
Matt pulls out of his long winding driveway onto an empty street. By ten a.m., this neighborhood becomes as quiet as the moment before hell unleashes in a horror movie. Kids are in school and parents are at work. I learned the rhythm of this place while on the sidelines.
“Thanks for letting me crash. It would’ve been hell recovering alone.”
He slaps me on the shoulder. “Of course, man. You’re family. You know that.”
My stomach lurches. If I was a good friend and teammate, I wouldn’t hit on his sister behind his back. I’d own the feelings continuing to grow every moment I’m around her. But I know what would happen if I did—he’d cut me out of my life for crossing the line. And Finley would stand by her family. I’d lose them both.
