That voice. The ache in my chest bloomed so fast it knocked the air from my lungs. I slid down the studio wall, my sweaty back hitting the cool plaster as I crumpled to the floor, and everything else—years, mistakes, memories—crashed down like a wave.
“W-why are you calling me?” I whispered. “Is something wrong?”
Because it had beenyears. Four goddamn years of silence. Of pretending we didn’t exist. Of holding it all in.
“No,” he said, voice so soft I had to press the phone tighter to my ear just to catch it. “I’ve been watching you. Online, I mean. I got my new jersey and saw your logo—yourface—on the promo card and I just... ”
I let out a breathy, slightly unhinged laugh. “Of course it was the same brand. Ofcoursethe universe thinks it’s hilarious to stitch me into your literal uniform.”
“Yeah,” he said with a small chuckle, but then his voice dipped again. “I miss you, Luna girl.”
My throat closed up. I hated that it still felt like a knife through my ribs when he said my name like that. Like itbelongedto him.
“I have a boyfriend.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s not why I called. I just... ” He paused again. “It’s my last year. On the ice. One more season and I’m done.”
I blinked hard, staring at the floor like it might offer me some kind of answer.
“Oh yeah?” I managed, my voice thready.
“Yeah,” he said. “And before it’s over, I needed to hear your voice again.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Because like that, the years collapsed between us, and I wasn’t in a yoga studio in London anymore. I was 21 again, tangled up with him and Jeremy and all the reckless love we thought would last forever.
“It’s weird... knowing it’s ending. Everything’s been hockey for so long, I don’t know what it looks like on the other side.”
“I don’t know,” I said softly, “maybe you’ll get into pickleball.”
Dirks laughed, warm and deep, and it hit me in the chest like a memory I didn’t know I’d been missing. “Please. If I ever pick up a pickleball paddle, just take me out back and finish the job.”
A smile tugged at my mouth despite the heat building in my eyes. “You always said you were gonna die a hockey boy.”
“Still might,” he murmured. “But maybe now I just want to be a hockey boy with a decent back and a functioning knee.”
“You always were moredad energythan jock.”
He scoffed. “I’m literally an athlete.”
“You’re literally the guy who always keeps awickerbasket in his trunk.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
We both laughed. It was light and easy, like we hadn’t lost four years to silence.
Yet, in the quiet between our words, I couldn’t stop wondering,had Jeremy ever told him?
About the fact that we were in the same fucking foster home and that, technically, for a while, we’d been labeledsiblingson some government form. That we were just two lost kids with the same bad luck, stamped siblings by the state, but nothing in our veins made it true. Still, I wondered if Dirks had ever heard about it... if Jeremy had spilled out of spite.
“So what about you?” he asked. “I mean, I’veseenwhat you’ve been up to, can’t go online without your face popping up, but how’s itfeel?”
I shifted, tucking my legs beneath me and twisting a stray piece of hair around my finger.
“Weird,” I admitted. “Like I blinked and suddenly had a platform. I was just doing yoga to keep from crawling out of my skin. The rest kind of... happened. Now I’m the body-positive face of leggings with pockets.”
Dirks chuckled. “You were always gonna take over the world. You just didn’t know it yet.”
