“I have to earn a roster spot. It’s not-”
“Shut up,” Willow says. “You’re going pro.”
I laugh. “Okay. I’m going pro.”
“So,” Willow says, “when are you coming back to campus?”
I look at my childhood room. The posters on the walls. The bed I’ve slept in for eighteen years. The window that looks out at the street where I learned to ride a bike, where my father taught me to shoot pucks into a net we set up in the driveway.
“I’m not,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Katie asks.
“I’m not coming back to Blackwood at all. The only thing waiting for me is sports science textbooks, and you know how much I looove that.”
Willow’s voice is small. “But - us. You’re just - leaving?”
“I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving Blackwood.”
Katie nods slowly. “You’re moving onto way bigger things.”
“I’m happy for you,” Willow says. She wipes her eyes again. “I just - I’m going to miss you so much.”
I press my phone closer. “I’m going to miss you both too. Every day.”
“So, what happens now?” Katie asks.
I look out the window. The street is quiet. Snow is starting to fall, soft and white, covering everything in a fresh layer.
“Now,” I say, “I go to Boston. I earn a roster spot. And I play hockey.”
Willow smiles through her tears. “That’s a good plan.”
“I thought so.”
“Promise you’ll call. Every week.”
“I promise.”
“And you’ll come visit. When you have a break.”
“I’ll come visit.”
“And you’ll tell us when you score your first professional goal so we can be insufferable about it on social media.”
I laugh. “I promise.”
37
TWO YEARS LATER
ZANE
There are eight thousand people on their feet as number nineteen carries the puck through the neutral zone.
I’m in the stands with my hood pulled up, trying not to be recognized.
It’s harder now. My face has been on enough sports sites that people stop me in airports sometimes. But tonight, no one’s looking at me. They’re looking at her.
