Page 61 of Lose You Twice

But I’ll still deal with anyone who gives you shit myself.

Something shifts in her face. Not much, but enough to tell me I chose the right words this time.

“Thank you.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The equipment room is cramped enough that I can smell her shampoo under the laundry detergent and cold-rink air. Familiar enough to hurt, even though it has probably changed since we were teenagers, but I can still smell the strawberries.

I keep my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie where they have a less likely chance of reaching for her.

Wren turns back to the cart and grabs a towel from the top. “I really do have work to do, and you should probably go do captain things or get to class, or whatever it is you have to do.”

“Probably,” I agree, but don’t move.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “That was your cue to leave.”

“I got that.”

“And yet you’re still standing there.”

“I’m leaving.” I take one step back, but stop. “Hey, Wren?”

She faces me again.

“I’m glad you got the job. You’ll be great.”

She looks down at the towel in her hands, trying and failing to hide the small smile on her lips. “Thanks.”

I bite my lip to hide my own smile as I turn on my heel and head out the door.

I just earned a smile.

9

WREN

Ilearned three important things during my first official shift with the PCU men’s hockey team.

One: hockey players use more towels than any group of people should be legally allowed to use.

Two: Donnelly Pierce has a label for everything, including a bin marked emergency towels, which I regret asking about.

Three: Kai apologizing to my face is significantly harder to recover from than Kai ignoring my text.

That feels unfair.

The ignoring was familiar. Painful, yes, but familiar enough that I knew where to put it. I had a place for it in my mental filing cabinet already. It could sit with every other time Kai got quiet instead of honest, every time he disappeared into hockey or responsibility or whatever else felt safer than looking directly at me.

The apology did not fit there.

It’s been sitting under my skin for the last hour while I sort practice jerseys and pretend I am deeply invested in the difference between white tape, clear tape, and the black tape Donnelly told me never to misplace unless I want to “experience what mutiny smells like.”

For the record, I do not.

I already know what hockey gear smells like, and that is enough suffering for one lifetime.

“You listening, Calloway?”

I look up too fast and nearly drop the stack of towels in my arms. Donnelly stands beside a rolling cart with a clipboard in one hand, and his reading glasses low on his nose.