Page 371
“Your mother appreciates them.”
Martin blows the whistle before Eastman can respond.
The next hour becomes skating, contact, shots, and enough repetition to force everything outside the rink from my head. Charm’s letter waits against my chest while my body works through the familiar language of hockey. My lungs burn, sweat gathers beneath my equipment, and the edge of my stick finds the puck without conscious thought.
This is the only place where instinct has never betrayed me.
When practice ends, Briggs is trapped near the bench by Martin and the goalie coach. They speak with the intense focus reserved for men building a season around him. Briggs listens without deflecting the praise or transforming it into a joke.
Six months ago, he would have found a way to make himself smaller beneath their expectations.
Today, he nods and tells them he can be better.
I strip the tape from my stick while watching him.
The fear never entirely leaves.
Lyric exists outside every locked door we have placed between them. Briggs has blocked numbers, changed routines, and warned security at the building and facility. None of it can prevent her from finding him on the wrong night.
I worry she will call when he is lonely enough to answer.
I worry she will text when he is drunk, appear when he is hurting, or catch him inside one of those moments when remembering the good feels easier than surviving the damage. I worry he will mistake wanting the pain to stop for wanting her back.
He knows I worry.
He hates it almost as much as he needs it.
Briggs skates toward me after the coaches release him.
“You looked emotional,” he says.
“I was thinking about how much quieter the team would be if a puck took out your teeth.”
“My mask protects my face.”
“We could remove it.”
“You’d miss my smile.”
“I’d celebrate the silence.”
He stops beside me and looks toward the pocket of my jacket hanging beyond the glass. “You answer her yet?”
“No.”
“It’s been almost a week.”
“I know how calendars work.”
“Do you know how pens work?”
“I’ve written four responses.”
“How many did you send?”
I glare at him.
Briggs rests his stick across his shoulders. “That feels like an important part of the process.”
