Page 14 of Grief & Glitter

I swallowed. “Hi, Sable.” Her tail thumped once against the plastic seat, slow, content.

Chip smiled. “I’ll be back.” He turned for the tunnel then paused halfway up the steps. “I’ll be twenty minutes with Coach, and then I’ll walk about for another forty. Take your time with her.” Then he disappeared into the corridor.

For a long while neither of us moved. I scratched behind Sable’s ears, and she leaned harder into my leg with a soft sigh that carried more than just words. Dogs didn’t ask questions, didn’t need explanations, didn’t care whether someone was broken. They just stayed. I buried my fingers into the thick fur at her neck and felt the steady warmth underneath it. The black dog didn’t leave—it never did—but it shifted back a few feet. Far enough that I could breathe again.

“You know I told you about Scruff,” I said quietly into the top of her head. “He was a terrier we had growing up.” She flicked an ear toward me but didn’t move. “He was Ethan’s dog, really. Followed him everywhere. Used to sneak onto his bed at night, and Ethan would swear up and down to Dad that he had no idea how the fur got there.” I scratched behind her ears again, slower this time. “He was good for us, after Mom. I don’t know how he knew what to do, but he did. Same as you.” My throat tightened around the rest of it. “You’ve got some kind of magical superpower, huh.”

Sable whined, low in her chest, and I closed my eyes against it.

“I miss you, Ethan.”

I don’t know how long I sat there. Maybe it was the whole hour Chip had given me, maybe less, but a voice called my name from somewhere below.

“Hey.”

I opened my eyes. Ryan stood a few rows down, a bottle of water in one hand and a banana in the other. “Chip said you needed this. And that I needed to bring it.” He glanced at Sable then back at me. “Is everything okay?”

I couldn’t talk to him. I couldn’t even manage a smile, or a word, or anything that would’ve told him I was fine. Ryan’s expression shifted, uneasy, like he was already regretting climbing up here. I should’ve said something. Told him I was being stupid, that I just needed a minute. Nothing came.

He nodded slowly and set the water and the banana down on the seat beside me, close enough that I could reach them. “Okay. I’ll…” He didn’t finish it. He turned and left the way he’d come, his shoulders dropping a little with every step. I knew he’d wanted more from me than silence—a word, a smile, even just a hello.

Sable whined softly and leaned harder into my side, and the tears started again in the empty rows. I let them come until I’d cried enough. It’s been ten fucking years. Why am I not done with it? I was so angry with myself I could’ve put my fist through the seat in front of me—angry that I couldn’t say two words to Ryan, angry that a banana and a bottle of water had nearly broken me, angry that ten years hadn’t done a single thing to make this easier.

Somewhere below us a door opened, voices echoed faintly through the arena, a cart rattled over concrete, someone laughed. The building was waking up. Sable’s head came up first, ears twitching toward the sound, always listening, always ready. I gave her one last scratch before standing. Why was this such an awful fucking spiral, every single year, and yet here I was in it again? I needed to go. Optional skate started in an hour—a chance to get on the ice, lose myself in something that didn’t require words, listen to whoever else turned up, maybe even pretend everything was okay.

“Come on, girl.”

She fell into step beside me. Today would always hurt. Every anniversary would. But there was a game to play, and somehow I didn’t think Ethan would’ve wanted it any other way.

I headed down to the locker room, Sable trotting beside me, and turned the corner straight into Chip talking to Ryan, who had a hand pressed flat to his chest. What the fuck.

Chip glanced my way and clicked his fingers. Sable peeled off toward him without hesitation, falling in at his side. He left without a word, without so much as a look back, which meant I was standing alone in the corridor with Ryan. My chest hurt, my eyes were scratchy from crying, and I was just done. Completely done.

“Chip told me…” Ryan started then stopped. He took a step closer. “I’m so sorry, Gideon.”

He called me Gideon with so much compassion behind it. He said he was sorry, and I didn’t want it, not right then. Ten years of sorry hadn’t fixed anything, and I couldn’t collect more of it in a corridor. I needed the words to say thank you, or to explain, or anything at all, and they just weren’t there. Everything was black and heavy behind my eyes. I brushed past him without a word because it was the only thing I had left in me.

So much for making friends and connections.

By the time I’d suited up, Arnaud was already out there in net, along with Walker, Chip, and Bob, plus a couple of the rookies who clearly decided showing up to optional skate counted as brownie points. “Passing,” was all Walker said when I stepped onto the ice, and that was enough.

We didn’t do anything more than that. Lazy passing, drifting in loose circles, nobody keeping score, just the feel of the ice under my blades and the soothing repetition of receive, look up, send it on. Arnaud stood in goal and didn’t let in a single easy goal, cursing us out in rapid-fire French Canadian every time someone even looked like they might score. Bob crowded the crease trying to screen him on purpose, and Arnaud shoved him off with a stick to the pads.

“Câlisse, tabarnak, get out of my crease.”

“Make me.”

“You’re not even trying.”

“I’m always trying.” Bob crowded back in, and Arnaud shoved him again, harder this time.

“Get. Out.”

“Or what?”

“Or the moose comes for you.” Arnaud didn’t even blink when he said it.

Bob backed off anyway, muttering something under his breath, and Arnaud muttered something back in French that didn’t sound complimentary. Nobody stepped in or asked what the hell a moose had to do with anything. Bob and Arnaud fought on a daily basis, so we all just let them go at it. Somewhere in the middle of their bickering, Walker kept finding me with the puck, passing to me every single time like it was nothing. The warmth building in my muscles from the exercise finally caught up with everything else, and the black dog moved off my shoulder. By the time we wrapped up, I was breathing easier than I had all morning.