Page 79 of Protective Pucking Orc

Rosa, being five, had internalized the whole thing like one of her animated movies: the bad man fell through the ice because he didn’t follow the rules. She’d announced exactly that to her entire kindergarten class during a unit on winter safety. Her teacher relayed it to me at the parent-teacher meeting with a very careful expression, waiting to see what I’d do, and I’d laughed right there at that miniature table until I cried—both things, at once, as Dakvaar held me and shared a simplified version for the teacher.

Kids are terrifying. Kids are also, occasionally, exactly right.

The bad men didn’t listen to the rules about the thin ice. It was true, and also a teaching moment.

“There you are.” Lila materialized at my elbow with a fresh mug and traded me for my empty one. She didn’t say anything stupid, like are you okay? She just stood with me, hip to hip, looking out at the water.

Skaters understand ice. I think she understood mine.

“The detective called last week,” I said, a little dully. “It’s closed. Officially, finally. The inquest ruled accidental death back in the spring, but there were estate loose ends, paperwork. Now there’s no file anywhere with my name in it.”

“And the other thing?”

The other thing. Degas. I still don’t know exactly what Dakvaar’s people did in those weeks after—only that he drove to Denver twice with Lila’s terrifying lawyer, came home grim and satisfied both times, and that whatever debt Anthony owed had died in that pond with him. Nobody ever came. Nobody ever called. My daughter was nobody’s collateral, not anymore, not ever.

“Gone,” I said. “Like it never was.”

“Good.” She clinked her mug against mine, let one more quiet moment pass for both of us, and then—because Lila has an impeccable sense for exactly when to rescue me from my own head—tipped her chin back toward the fire. “Now come explain what’s wrong with our goalie, because Kardok’s theories are getting unhinged.”

Torrk was, in fact, being weird.

Okay, so Torrk at a party is normally a natural disaster with a highlight reel. Torrk at this party had spent the entire evening on a hay bale, staring into the flames, checking his phone, and sighing. Audibly, like a Victorian widow.

When Jord bounded over to show him a video, Torrk had patted his shoulder. Gently. Jord had backed away like he’d witnessed something paranormal.

“Twenty bucks says it’s a female,” Holly said, appearing at my other side with a plate of pie. Jord’s girlfriend had a bloodhound’s nose for gossip and absolutely no shame about it, which is why I liked her so much.

“It’s not a female,” Kardok called from the entirely separate conversation he was supposed to be having. “He probably lost a bet. Or found a lump. Hey Torrk, did you find a lump in a weird place?”

“Gods below!” Bardon groaned. “Don’t give him an opening to talk about his testicles!”

“Leave him be,” Dakvaar rumbled, ambling over with Rosa riding his shoulders like a conquering general, mittens buried in his hair, cheeks blazing from fire and sugar. “Perhaps he’s reflecting on last season.”

“Last season was good,” Jord protested, instantly abandoning the Torrk mystery for the better argument. “Conference finals! Two whole rounds farther than last year⁠—”

“And then we lost,” said Kardok.

“Two rounds farther⁠—”

“In five games.”

“Four of which were one-goal games,” Bardon said mildly from the food table. “Deepest run the Terrors have made. Next spring we finish it.”

“Next year,” Dakvaar said.

That was all. Two words. But the way the whole circle went quiet and nodded—instant, unanimous, a little scary in the firelight—told you everything you needed to know about what next season was going to cost the rest of the league.

Then Torrk sighed again, mournfully, at his phone, and the entire group swiveled back to him like weathervanes.

“Okay, what?” Holly demanded. “Who is she?”

“There is no she.” Torrk rose from his hay bale with tragic dignity and pocketed the phone. “It’s just, before the solstice, I have to figure—” He bit down hard on what he was about to say. “It’s complicated, okay?”

“That’s the most suspicious sentence I’ve ever heard in my life,” Lila stage-whispered.

“The Torrk Method does not explain itself.” He sniffed, as if offended, lifted his chin, and strode toward the fermented jug, bearing his great secret or possibly just going back for thirds, leaving a whole circle of people exchanging looks over their cider. I caught my husband’s eye across the fire. He gave me one mountainous shrug.

Later, it said. Whatever it is, we’ll find out by Christmas.