“What do you mean, her favorite part?” Hailey asks.
Elle grins. “She knows a few of the players.”
“Wait, what?” Madison leans forward. “You know hockey players?”
“I don’t—”
“I met them too!” Zinnia pipes up, trading with Madison.
“Spill,” Peyton demands. “Now. I’ll trade a few of these with you.”
Zinnia nods a bit too eagerly.
“It’s not a big deal,” I mutter.
“Not a big deal?” Elle laughs.
Zinnia says, “She didn’t come home that night.”
The girls erupt.
“WHAT?”
“Are you serious?”
“Which ones?”
I bury my face in my hands.
Elle or Zinnia doesn’t give details—thank God—but she tells them enough that now they’re all glued to the TV, trying to figure out which players I know. Then they give up after a while because I keep my mouth zipped.
The game plays in the background. We keep playing Catan, but my eyes keep drifting to the screen.
Number 39.
Jax.
I watch him skate. He’s fast and aggressive. He’s got the puck and he’s weaving through defenders like they’re not even there.
I wish I knew Zephyr’s number. Callum’s too.
The game ends. The team loses.
The girls groan.
“They were so close,” Hailey says.
“Number 39 played insane though,” Madison adds.
I don’t say anything, just stare at the screen as the players skate off the ice.
We keep playing Catan, eating popcorn drizzled in dark chocolate with sea salt sprinkled on top. Elle made it, and it’s perfect—sweet and salty and so good I can’t stop eating it.
I lose Catan spectacularly.
But I don’t care.
Because for the first time in days, I feel light.
