Mama Bird:Turns out that my gut was right. It was a scam.
Mama Bird:I paid him up front and haven’t heard from him in two weeks. Now his phone number doesn’t work anymore.
Mama Bird:Frustrating! I’m figuring out how to take him to small claims court.
Mama Bird:Anyway, good luck at the game today!
I stare down at my phone. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely read the text, though three times was enough. My stomach drops straight through the floor.
“Ready to go, dude?” Viktor asks. “Hey, Owen? You good?”
“Yeah.” I slam the door on my emotions and toss my phone into my locker. I’m fine. I’m going to be fine. I’m going to push my feelings all the way down. I’ll focus on the ice. On the net.
On the game.
The lie sounds weak inside my own head.
“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Viktor jostles me with one elbow, clearly trying to get some sort of reaction out of me. I give him nothing. I need a minute to process.
If I open my mouth right now, I’m not entirely convinced I won’t start yelling.
I wish I could talk to Remy. But she’s barely said two words to me since I told her about my dad. At the time, I thought she understood me, but the way she’s avoided me since then speaksfor itself. Apparently, telling somebody the worst thing about yourself is a great way to watch them pull away afterward.
“I’m fine,” I say again.
Viktor pulls a face. “Sure you are. And as long as youstayfine during this game, we’ll be good. Don’t do anything stupid, Rourke.”
In warmups, my timing is off. It’s even more noticeable because I’ve been doing so well this season. Viktor keeps making eye contact to check in, but I just nod each time. I’ll be fine once the game starts. If anything, I’ll be better than ever.
Some lowlife loser scammed my mother because he thought she was an easy mark.
“All good, Rourke?” Tristan asks.
“All good,” I reply.
At this point, I’m basically one bad thought away from chewing through drywall.
But as we get ready to enter the rink, it occurs to me with blinding clarity: It’s a good thing that the fucker who scammed my mother took her money and ran. What if he’d done the job poorly, and his subpar work caused an electrical fire?
I’m so horrified by the thought that I almost miss the moment when the commentator calls my name. Coach Metcalfe has to get my attention. People cheer as I push off into the rink. The bright lights and the frantic cheering from the stands mingle with my dark fantasies of a possible fire.
Not helpful. She’s fine. Everything’s fine. It’s only money.
Tell that to every kid who’s ever watched smoke pouring out of their house, wondering if their mother’s going to make it out.
In a moment of sheer desperation, I seek out Remy, who is mingling with the press corps per Dante’s newest machinations. She’s wearing her pass and headset, and carrying her ever-present clipboard, trying to blend in. My entire nervous system unclenches for half a second just from seeing her. She lookscalm. Peaceful. And she barely smiles in the brief seconds when we make eye contact. After that, she won’t meet my eyes at all. That hurts more than Dallas scoring ever could.
“That your babysitter?” one of the wingers from Dallas asks.
“Fuck off, Toutain,” I snap.
He leers at me, but then he’s gone, and I tell myself that’s the end of it. I’ll get in the crease, I’ll pull all this shit out of my mind, and things will return to normal.
If only. Three minutes into the first period, Dallas scores on a deflection. Toutain winks on his way past.
“First the net, then your shadow, eh?” He makes a lewd gesture on the way past. “Dallas knows how to get it in!”
His teammates laugh as my vision goes hot around the edges.
