“Yeah.” I lace my skates, focusing on the familiarrhythm. Left over right. Pull tight. Double knot. Routine keeps you centered. Routine keeps the noise out.
Except tonight, the noise is inside my head.
Earlier, on the walk back from the rink, I’d typed without thinking:
KIERAN
Five hours on a bus is a long time
You bringing homework or actual fun?
The reply came faster than I expected.
WREN
Homework IS fun
I’d laughed out loud, thumb moving.
KIERAN
That’s the darkest thing you’ve ever said
Also I Googled the markings on your belt
Pretty sure that means second-dan
Seven years minimum
When did you start?
There’d been a pause. Long enough to make me wonder if I’d crossed aline. Then:
WREN
When I was seven
Before we moved to the US
I stared at the screen.
Moved to the US.
That was it. No follow-up. No explanation. Just a fact, delivered cleanly and sealed shut. Like everything about her.
I wanted to ask more. I didn’t.
Annoyed with myself for caring at all, I lock my phone and shove it into my bag, chest tighter than it should be for a conversation that didn’t actually go anywhere.
That obviously won’t go anywhere.
It’s like knocking on a door that’s already been shut in my face.
She said no three times in twenty-four hours. Dinner. Breakfast. The game.
I should be used to rejection by now. Hockey’s full of it—missed shots, blocked passes, games you lose despite leaving everything on the ice.
But this feels different.
