I snort despite myself.
“Why do I feel like you’re hiding something?” I ask.
Leo’s smile widens just for a fraction of a second.
“Because you know me.”
The announcer starts explaining the rules of the on-ice portion. Whoever is called to skate has to reach the blue line. That’s it.
The crowd cheers. Somewhere behind us, Tess lets out a low, amused hum, like she’s clocked the tension and is enjoying the show.
I glance back at the bowl.
Then at Leo.
Then back at the ice.
A bad feeling settles in my stomach. Not dread, exactly, more like anticipation sharpened to a point.
“Leo,” I say slowly. “Did you talk to anyone? Did you pull a string?”
He blinks. “Define talk. And string.”
I point at him. “You did do something.”
“I always do something,” he says cheerfully.
“That is not comforting.”
The announcer reaches into the bowl.
My heart kicks.
Hard.
I tell myself it’s fine. The odds are low. There are dozens of names in there. This is adrenaline I’m feeling. My brain is being dramatic. This is nervousness. Maybe anxiety, even.
Leo leans in, his voice low, teasing. “Imagine if you got pulled.”
I glare at him. “Imagine if you tripped on your own shoelaces in front of all these people.”
He laughs. “I’d own it.”
I swallow.
The announcer pulls out a slip of paper. The rink goes quiet.
I don’t look at Leo. I don’t look at Tess. I stare straight ahead, pulse roaring in my ears, and think: You did this. You chose this.
And somewhere, deep down, a tiny voice whispers: But did you?
The announcer unfolds the slip of paper. There’s a pause. A dramatic one. The kind that exists solely to torture people who already regret their life choices.
I squeeze my hands together inside my sleeves and breathe through my nose, slow and steady, like Tess taught me when the ovens went down last winter, and everything smelled like panic and burnt butter.
This is fine.
This is a fundraiser.
