Violet:But I’m happy. Is that weird?
Cassie:That’s called living, babe. I prescribe more of it. Also, drink water. I just yelled at a resident for forgetting that.
The fact that Cassie is yelling at residents has me laughing and gaining weird looks from my seat neighbors again. Cassie is only an intern and has no right telling the residents, who are higher on her career food chain, what to do.
That’s my girl.
Cassie:Listen to me with all of your sleep-deprived brain. You are allowed to protect yourself and still enjoy your life. Those things are not mutually exclusive. Also, you’re trying new things and glowing from across the ocean, so hush.
Violet:I love you, wife.
Cassie:You fucking better, wife. And don’t forget… I work tomorrow, but then I’m off for the next three days. Call or text if you need me. Better yet, fly me out there!
I laugh, but the laughter slowly fades as I have the craziest thought. I’m Solace. A famous pop singer who can do whatever the fuck she wants.
Violet:Pack your shit, Cass. I’m getting you a round-trip ticket.
The clock is screaming. Not literally, but it may as well be with the seconds ticking down in giant red numbers. I’m on my feet without the memory of standing up, and my hands are clenched so tight my nails are definitely leaving half-moons in my palms.
Skye has the puck. Of course she does.
She skates as she always does, fast and controlled. She’s cutting left, pulling two defenders with her like it’s part of the plan. My brain barely keeps up, but my chest does. I know the look on Skye’s face. I know what’s coming.
She passes.
Clean and perfect, right to Rissa.
There’s a breath as the entire arena inhales.
Rissa shoots.
The puck hits the back of the net with a sound that detonates the entire arena.
Goal.
I’m yelling so loudly, I don’t even realize I’m doing it until my throat hurts, and my hat starts to move around on my head. The horn blows, the crowd goes wild, and the clock strikes zero like a period at the end of a beautiful sentence.
They did it. They won the semifinal game.
The USA Women’s Hockey Team is going to the gold medal game, and I couldn’t be happier for them if I tried.
There’s chaos on the ice. Helmets crashing into helmets, gloves flying through the air, and Skye gets absolutely buried under her teammates. I’m laughing and crying in that crazy way that feels embarrassing but also necessary. My heart wants to explode through my ribcage.
I stay long enough to see Skye looking up into the stands, scanning the faces of everyone cheering. I don’t wave or make a scene; I press my fingers to my lips and blow her a kiss that she doesn’t see. It’s a madhouse in here, and the main characters in the stories would never actuallyfind each other in a place like this.
I send Skye a quick congratulatory text and slip out because she will have to deal with the press. She’ll have microphones shoved in her face, asking her how she feels about winning, what it means to make it this far, and if she knew they’d be stretching toward winning the gold. She’ll be professional about it because she always is. Skye was trained with her replies. She knows when she’s hit that sweet spot of just enough information.
As her… whatever the hell I am, I should be staying behind to wait and celebrate with her. But the press will be overwhelming, and I’ve got a concert to get to.
Or, as I told Skye, the opera house tour.
Outside the arena, the noise dulls, but my ears are still ringing. I finally exhale and pull my phone out, dialing without thinking too hard.
Ollie answers on the third ring.
“What,” she says. Not hello. Just what. Pure Long Island efficiency with a side of attitude, and a side I don’t normally see.
“Hi to you too. I just wanted to check in. See if you’ve been okay.”
