Page 62 of Lose You Twice

“Yes.”

He gives me a look.

“Mostly,” I add.

“That answer I believe.” He taps his pen against the clipboard and points toward the bins along the wall. “Practice towels in the gray bin, game towels in the blue, emergency towels in the red.”

“I’m still concerned about the emergency towels.”

“You should be.”

“That wasn’t exactly comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” He checks something off on his list. “Jerseys get sorted by color first, then number. Don’t trust the players to put anything where it belongs. They have many talents. Organization is not one of them.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “That seems accurate.”

“It is.” He looks at me over the top of his glasses. “You did fine earlier.”

The praise catches me off guard. It feels good for my work; even when it’s expected, it is appreciated.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t look too relieved. You still folded half the towels wrong.”

I glance at the pile. “There’s a wrong way to fold towels?”

“There are many wrong ways to fold towels.”

“Of course there are.”

He shows me again, and I can’t say I’ll be able to remember this come Monday. But I do have a Mount St. Helens pile of laundry waiting for me at home, so I guess I’ll be practicing.

I have to admit, there’s something calming about a room where everything has a place, and someone notices when it’s not in said place. At home, I can set the same lunch box by the door every night and still watch it vanish by morning. Not like I can talk, since my room is in a constant state of chaos, and you never know what could be hiding in the bottom of my closet.

But I understand taking missing things personally, especially when you don’t know what exactly led to them going missing in the first place.

I spend the next forty minutes folding towels the Donnelly style and labeling a drawer full of laces. The work is boring, but not bad. It keeps my hands busy. The instructions are clear, which helps me focus on one task at a time.

Fold this. Sort that. Label these. Do not put the practice jerseys with the game jerseys unless I want Donnelly to let out a very, very, very deep sigh.

Kai would also sigh if things weren’t where they were supposed to be.

Not that I’m thinking about him.

Obviously.

I’m thinking about much safer things, like towels.

The equipment room door opens, and my body reacts before I look up.

I hate that.

My shoulders slump in disappointment when I realize it’s not Kai.

It’s Asher, still damp from his shower, holding a broken skate lace in one hand and wearing the expression of someone forced to communicate against his will.

“Donnelly around?” he asks.