“You fuck up anything and?—”
I cut Aleks off, “I’ll eat my own balls.”
His head jerks back like I’ve slapped him and his jaw drops.
“You get your documents together so I can get it to the lawyer to transfer the deed?” Koa asks as he and Dash pass us.
“You got the money, just chill.” I answer then look back at Aleks. “Before you ask, yes.”
“You bought her the house?” he asks.
“Holy shit,” Dash laughs. “It’s for Hildy?”
“You three shut the hell up,” I glance around to make sure no one else heard. “It’s going to be a gift, and any of you mess that up for me, I’ll be pissed.”
Silence and then Koa says, “Chill out man. No one’s gonna say shit.”
Deacon's voice echoes across the locker room. "Ice time. Let’s move it."
The first lap burns, the second one opens everything up. My lungs expand, my legs find their rhythm, and the familiar white noise of the rink consumes the next half an hour.
I spot Aleks gliding near the blue line, his stick hanging loose though his eyes track everything. He waits until we're skating side by side before speaking.
"So," he hums, studying my face. "This is happening fast.”
“It is.”
“Ring shopping soon?" he asks.
"You're getting exclusive intel here." He nods once, accepting the confidence. "And when I do, which will be after I give her thehouse, so she knows that regardless, she and Lucy will be set up, properly. I will formally propose when it feels right."
His mouth quirks up. "You? Following protocol?"
"Careful," I warn, then add, "Assuming Lucy approves."
"I'm happy for you," he says, "but still annoyed you claimed not to know her."
"I told you I didn’t meet her at Ice House, and that is the truth,” I say, pushing off.
We form up at the blue line, shoulder to shoulder, then surge out and cut a circuit around the cones. The two of us skate as if yoked, which we are, in ways that matter and some that don’t, and the axis of our friendship has always run through motion rather than silence. Aleks doesn’t need to ask, not really—he’s clocking, the way he always has, every shift in my rhythm, every half-second delay or extra push. He knows the difference between when I want to talk and when I need to move instead, and just like me with him, he allows it.
He lobs a pass to me during a transition drill. I snap it back harder than necessary, and he grunts, grins, and doesn’t flinch. We do this for the next five minutes—escalating, then easing off, like the old days at Yale, killing time on the ice every chance we could get, both with something to prove, a goal to work toward. Each drill is a conversation; more honest than any confession we could muster in a locker room. We run the same pattern half a dozen times, and by the seventh, Aleks is ready.
He glides in close, shoulder bumping mine, voice pitched low so the others can’t hear, “Your family will expect you to move back eventually.”
“That will be a decision, Hildy, and I make together, and they’ll get over it.” Truth is, they won’t. I still get shit about hockey. They’ve never gotten over anything, but I’m counting on a long career and the distance of the Atlantic Ocean to keep them at bay.
Aleks lets out a strangled laugh, and for the next three laps we don’t say another word, but the energy between us is looser, more definite. If you asked me to explain why, I couldn’t, but I know things are good with us.
Changing out of gear, I check my phone and see a message.
Anna:
I will not be sick for your game on Saturday, but Friday night, if I am, I want an IV drip so full of vitamins my piss is glowing so that I can power through.
When the next pops up, I realize Anna has started a group message, and Hildy is included.
Hildy:
