“I’m not scared.”
Oliver snorts at that. “God, you’re a difficult patient. But fine. You’repressuredthen. Pressure you’re putting on yourself.”
“There’s only half a year left!”
“See, this is what I mean.”
I grind my teeth, since I don’t want to have this argument all over again, staring up at the ceiling with a deep frown etched on my face.
“You played very well over at St. Bernard’s. Any idea how that happened?”
I actually do have an idea, but unfortunately it has a lot to do with a certain black-haired, blue-eyed, holier-than-thou pain in the ass.
I don’t know what made my game better around Hart, just that we clicked like two damned puzzle pieces on the ice.
Granted, I still feel the irrational urge to strangle him with the laces of my skates when I think of his quirks—the way he dishes out disapproval at the gentlest swear word, or how he peruses theNew York Timesevery morning to read articles out loud like a goddamn news host. And that fucking Wordle!
But I also miss the challenge of keeping up with his freakishly long strides. Or teasing him about his weak backhand.
“No.” I answer sullenly, not ready to admit any of this.
“Well, I can tell you then: You had nothing to lose, Nicko. Because you weren’t worrying about your teammates and the Renegades–”
“Rebels,” I correct him, but Oliver just waves me off.
“Renegades, Rebels—tomato tomahto. What I mean is, you just played your weird stick game, and it looked like you had fun. So, maybe try and have fun again?”
I sigh as I finally get up into a sitting position, raking both hands through my hair.
“Right. Is that a doctor’s order?”
My roommate is giving me one of his cheeky grins, brown eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Futuredoctor’s order. Hey, if you make it to the NHL, I will start charging for healthcare advice!”
Huffing out a laugh, I throw the ice pack at him, disgustingly stained dish towel and all.
Nicko, November 21st
“The answer is usually 42.”
I drop onto the bench next to Milo, which makes the boy jump. He obviously hasn’t noticed me making my way over here after everyone else left the ice. Over the past weeks he has buried his nose deep into his textbooks, never even glancing in my direction—if he showed up at the rink at all.
His blond head raises slowly now as he frowns up at me. He’s chewing absent-mindedly on the end of his pencil, which reminds me of Nate. We never had a problem keeping our stuff apart.
“Why 42?” Milo asks hesitantly, his eyes darting down to the math question in front of him. There’s not a lot of equation-solving going on, but the margins are filled with little drawings of pucks and hockey sticks.
“Is that out of your dad’s playbook?” I laugh when I discover a tiny sketch of the rink, showing one of the drills we ran today.
Milo gives me a curt nod before slamming his notebook shut. Turning away from me, he starts stuffing his school books and pencil case into his backpack.
I watch him quietly for a moment, then offer with a sigh: “Old folks like me believe 42 is the answer to everything. Except for why you’ve been avoiding me these past weeks.”
At first, I didn’t notice Milo was actively dodging me. A twelve year old probably has better things to do than sit in on his dad’s hockey practices. Also, my head was swimming with tasks after swapping back to my normal life. But whenever Milo did show up, he never even looked up once, always slipping out of the stands right before the end of practice.
“Am not,” he tells me sullenly. He has zipped up his pack now, ready to go, but since I’m still fully suited up, there’s no room for him to squeeze past me.
I raise my brows at his obvious lie, not adding anything else. There’s a moment of silence stretching on between us, which has Milo squirming in his seat.
