Page 5 of Grief & Glitter

The nylon scraped against painted steel with a soft rasp every time he pulled another length through, and somewhere out on the ice a compressor kicked into life before settling into its steady drone again. It wasn’t much of a conversation, but the quiet between us didn’t need filling.

Ryan worked with the same care I’d noticed when he sharpened skates after practice: nothing hurried, nothing wasted, every knot checked before he moved to the next, every section pulled until the tension matched the last. Watching him get it right calmed me.

“You don’t have to stay. I won’t mess up again.” He sounded as if he expected me to sit here checking his work and criticizing, and I wasn’t here to do that. What else is he going to think? I pointed out the missed loop. “You could be, uh…” He waved behind us. “Doing hockey-type things.”

“I could.”

He stared at me over the top of the frame, amusement flickering across his face.

“But you’re not.”

I shrugged. “I’m curious.”

“About hockey nets?”

“No, about how someone gets volunteered to restring three of them.”

“Dad says I have an affinity for careful work.” Ryan didn’t look up from the mesh. “And I was here anyway.” He went still for a second, considering it. “Or maybe I was voluntold. He just wants me to keep busy, I think, and I didn’t want to be at home on a Saturday.” I felt as if there was more to that last part than he was saying, but I didn’t ask why. He pulled another length of cord through. “He’ll probably redo half of these tomorrow, anyway.”

“You’re very good with your hands.”

“That’s what all the men say,” he quipped and then went scarlet. “Sorry, inappropriate banter alert.”

“It’s all good,” I said. A speck of glitter sat just under one of his eyes, catching the fluorescent light every time he moved. I had no idea where that had come from. I wondered if I should say something, but there was a smudge of eyeliner too, just under his lash line, and I didn’t know what to say. Whether he wore makeup was his business, not mine. But his skin was flawless, freshly shaved, not a mark on it, and his face was all cheekbones and⁠—

He pulled the final loop tight on that section and leaned back on his heels to study his work. One corner still sagged slightly, and he reached forward and adjusted it.

“There,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “That’ll hold until Dad redoes it all.” He laughed.

I was watching him instead of the net.

“What do you think?” Ryan asked.

I ran my fingers over the mesh, checking the tension the way I always did from the crease, out of habit as much as anything.

“It’s good.”

Ryan looked pleased and sat back to examine his work.

“Yeah,” he said. “It looks good.”

Ryan went to push himself up and swayed, one hand missing the frame he reached for.

“Head rush,” he said and wobbled again.

I caught him, my arm hooking around his waist while I was still down on one knee, but he landed half across my lap instead of upright. He was warm all down one side of me, and he smelled like sweat and rink and something sweeter underneath. He wriggled, getting his feet back under him, and every part of my brain narrowed down to one thought: don’t let go.

I wanted to hold him. Not steady him. Hold him and keep him exactly there. It hit me out of nowhere, hard enough that I nearly missed him finding his balance. I got to my feet fast and put a full step of air between us.

“Knew I should’ve eaten my oats this morning,” Ryan said, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead.

“You need protein, not just carbs, if you’re going to be on your knees for hours.” What the fuck did I just say? I tripped over something about electrolytes and blood sugar; a stat I was sure I’d invented on the spot. Word vomit, Gideon. Jeez. “Sorry,” I said. “Ignore that.”

Ryan just looked confused. “Okay then,” he said. “Good to know.”

“I have to—” I muttered and turned away with the rest of it unsaid, walking fast, straight for the locker room.

Make friends, she said. Smile, she said. Fuck.