“Coming,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
I look at him. He looks back. He’s not going to say anything, but his eyes are very steady, and the quiet between us is comfortable. So I stand, grab my helmet, and cross the room toward the tunnel.
Seb doesn’t move out of the doorway until I’m beside him. Then he steps back, falling into stride with me down the tunnel, his shoulder almost level with mine because he stands an inch shorter than I do and a foot wider.
As we walk, he glances over. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He doesn’t push. He keeps walking beside me, and the tunnel is cold and concrete and smells like old rubber. The light at the far end is bright with the rink. I tap the raven crest on my way past, and we hit the ice.
sixteen
ROWAN
Sloane is wearingmy spare Ravens hoodie as we walk to The Den.
It’s three sizes too big and keeps slipping off her shoulder, and she keeps pulling it back up without breaking her sentence. If I’m being honest, my eyes are focused on her figure much more than my ears are focused on the story she’s telling about Ivy.
It’s something about Ivy and a boy from her art history seminar and an espresso, and I am laughing in the right places, I think, because she hasn’t stopped talking, which means I’m keeping up. But I’m not keeping up, because I’ve got a million things on my mind.
Three weeks with the letter on my chest, and the list only gets longer.
“—and then she walks back into the dining hall like nothing happened,” Sloane finishes.
“Sounds about right,” I say, but it’s a second too late.
She squeezes my hand, and I feel her eyes on me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Mm.”
She knows it’s a lie. She’s letting me keep it anyway, like every time she’s asked these last few weeks, and somehow that’s worse than if she’d called it. Because the truth is, the captaincy has become all-consuming.
Before Gavin quit, I thought I was carrying a lot on my shoulders, but since getting the C, I’ve realized just how much bullshit goes along with the role. On the ice, the requirements are obvious. Off the ice, there are meetings and donor events and media and?—
“Rowan.” Sloane nudges her elbow into my ribs. “Are you sure you’re good?”
“Yeah,” I say.
The arena lights come up ahead, and we go in through the players’ tunnel. At the split where the family stairs branch off, Sloane turns to face me. Her mouth opens, then closes, and it’s clear she’s debating saying something.
Instead, she reaches up, brushes her thumb along my jaw, and kisses me.
And then she’s gone, up the stairs without looking back. I watch her go for longer than I need to, knowing it’s going to be the best part of my night. Then I turn toward the locker room doors.
But I pull up short, because my mother is in the corridor, wearing a camel coat, her hair immaculate. She must not be having any headaches today, which is unusual. Whatisusual is my father on the phone, two steps behind her, not yet looking at me.
When she sees me, my mother’s face brightens, and in that moment I feel guilty about avoiding their calls the last few weeks. “Sweetheart! Look at you!”
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
She walks over, takes hold of my upper arms and squeezes, then kisses the air beside my cheek. “We aresoexcited about the captaincy. Your father has beenimpossible.”
I give her the real smile, because she’s earned it by being here rather than in bed with some pills. Sometimes, it’s enough for the people you love to drag themselves out of bed and do the best they can, and she never manages to get to many of my games.
