If I can’t even help her solve a little household problem, what good am I? Why didn’t she tell me about the problem earlier? Doesn’t she trust me?
“Um, Owen?” Camden taps my knee. “You sure you’re okay?”
While I was stewing, Viktor somehow got Knight in a headlock. Tristan’s egging them on, but Camden’s wearing that worried expression again while he stares at me head-on. It takes me a moment to realize that I’ve been crushing the bag of Cheetos in my fist, reducing the puffy snacks to neon orange powder.
“Oh, yeah. I’m good. I, uh, like them this way.”
The furrow in Camden’s brown deepens. “Oh… kay?”
“No, for real. They’re great when they don’t, you know. Crunch.” To demonstrate how totally fine I am, I tip the crumpled bag upside down over my open mouth.
Camden’s still gaping at me open-mouthed.
I need him to stop looking.
I immediately regret all of my life choices. I might as well have a mouthful of sand. I cough and sputter, misting the air with cheese dust.
Viktor releases Knight to cover his face with both hands. “Owen, what the hell?”
Knight fans his hand in front of him and grimaces. “Actually, that’s not a bad mid-game strategy. Put some of that in your pocket so that you can blow it on the enemy.”
“Yeah, but not onme!” Viktor complains.
“Arealteam captain would applaud his team for their creative strategy,” Knight says.
Their scuffle resumes. I choke down a bottle of water to clear the dust out of my mouth. Before Camden has a chance to ask me any more questions, it’s time to head out to the ice.
I put my phone on silent and dump it in my bag.Get your head in the game. There’s nothing you can do to help right now. She’s not in danger. She’s safe.
My head knows that. Now, if only my nervous system would get the memo.
* * *
Once it’s game time, the ice settles me just like it always does. The cold air in my lungs. Clean lines. Predictable movement. There are rules out here. Angles. Physics. Cause and effect. None of that gray-area bullshit from real life.
I tap my posts twice and settle into the crease. My own personal playground.
The crowd is already loud, a low roar under everything, but it fades to background noise as I track the puck through warmups. Stick to blade. Blade to tape. Tape to net.
Simple. Controllable.
I like controllable.
“Hey.” Viktor glides past, tapping the top of my helmet. “You with us tonight, Rourke?”
I give him a short nod. “Yeah. All in.”
He studies me for half a second longer than I like, then skates off to line up for the anthem.
I reset my stance, rolling my shoulders, digging my edges into the ice.
Get your head in the game. There’s nothing you can do for her right now.
That thought lands about as well as the Cheeto dust. Once the anthem ends, the lights brighten.
Then the puck drops.
The first period starts fast.
