Jolie takes the seat at the end of the row and I hang out in the aisle. Lark smiles over at us both. I’m nervous, but there’s something reassuring about being here with them. Even though Delilah doesn’t know about me, she and Lark have taken care of my mate when I couldn’t. That means everything to me.
The players skate out and the announcer introduces the starting line-up. My eyes are glued to the number 12, MYLES staring back at me from my brother’s jersey.
It’s him.
He’s right there.
His face is hidden under his mask, but I’ve seen the articles, watched the games. Witnessing Winston as an adult is like someone pressed the fast-forward button on my life. For a moment, I can almost pretend that I never died. That I didn’t memorize the crescent scar beneath his glove down to the last faded tooth mark. That I just forgot the middle of our story and I’m here now, watching my little brother play hockey.
I have to remind myself that I’m in the arena. An immortal. Because the past threatens to drown me all over again right here on the ice. It’s where my mortal life ended. For a while, the pain of what I lost was unbearable, until I found a focus. A way to cope. My frost marks, becoming Lead Albidus, they were goals—something I could work toward that would help other lost Frosts like myself.
I did my duty. I brought winter to the mortal world and I was damn good at it. Then one day, without warning, the ache I’d learned to exist with became bearable. I was grateful and angry at myself for it. But then I’d see my family and that old wound reopened. It did each time I tried to see them until I stopped. A flimsy Band-Aid over a deep, gaping wound.
And tonight, Jolie ripped it off. Only this time, she’s here with me, watching from the stands, knowing I need her for this.
The game kicks off and Delilah doesn’t disappoint. Her wild antics soften the emotional blow of seeing my brother. She stands the whole time, waving her arms, no different than she does at home—only maybe a smidge louder. Not that anyone cares. There are tons of people around us screaming and cheering as well.
Winston sweeps the ice with the other players, faster and more strategic than his opponents by leaps and bounds. “He’s amazing.”
“Yes, he is.”
I can’t stop watching him. It’s like seeing Jolie on stage, experiencing the joy of her doing what she loves. They’re ignited. My brother loves hockey. He wasn’t as obsessed with it as I was when we were kids. He went along with it because I dragged him out to play with me. Now he does. I can see it in the gait of his strides, the lift of his chin, the tension held in his grip. The power behind his celebratory fist pump when he scores.
“Go on,” Jolie urges me in a whisper. “Enjoy your invisibility and get the best seat in the house.”
“You’re sure?” Excitement, along with a heavy dose of nerves, floods my veins.
“I’m sure.”
I flit closer. Pride fills my chest, remembering all the days playing together, our dad teaching us and pretending to make calls in a booming voice as if he were an announcer.
Then I’m skating alongside Winston.
I’m the wind propelling him forward. The ghost cheering at his back. When he scores again, I fly up and bump his fist with my own.
He brings it down, halting his skating. I almost think I see him stare at his glove afterward. Like he can sense I’m here.
Logically, I know he can’t, but I’m by his side whether he believes I am or not. My passion became my brother’s, and every time he glides out onto the ice, he takes a piece of me with him.
I press my mark and fly back to Jolie, kissing her temple and holding her while we watch the rest of the game. The crowd roars, the arena full of rabid Redhots fans. It’s a high unlike any other. Since becoming immortal, I don’t think I’ve been more surrounded by love. But this feeling has nothing to do with the crowd of thousands.
It has everything to do with him andher.
She’s given me the most precious gift. Tonight, I realize I haven’t been as invisible as I thought.
FEBRUARY
45
JOLIE
The pot hisses, steam billowing into my face. I lean into the chill pressed against my back, Jax’s arms wrapped around me while I stir the macaroni.
“Looks like Phil missed his shadow once again.” The newscaster’s voice filters into the kitchen from the TV. Delilah’s doing a sudoku while the news plays in the background. “Spring’s coming early.”
Their voice is excited, trilling with anticipation for the new season ahead. But all I feel is dread. A stone sinking into my gut, rippling into acidic waves. I crane my neck to look at Jax, but his expression gives away nothing.
“Be back in a few hours, Jojo,” Lark calls over, rushing out of her room and putting the backs onto her oversized art-deco earrings. She waves a silent goodbye to Jax. I’m not sure why she’s never suggested letting her girlfriend in on my secret. But I do know that as amazing as Delilah is, she tends to scoff at anything that goes beyond facts and logic.
