Page 88 of Lose You Twice

I finish taping my stick and stand. My hip twinges, not sharply, but enough to remind me that Wren was right about the floor. I try to let that thought annoy me, since it’s easier than admitting my mind can still faintly smell her shampoo.

Coach walks in before I can get any worse. “Morning skate starts in five. Keep it light, keep it clean. Road points matter. Discipline matters more.”

Weston raises a hand. “Does emotional discipline count?”

Coach stares at him.

Weston lowers his hand. “Withdrawn.”

Asher pats his shoulder once. “You’re learning, bud.”

I follow the team out, helmet in one hand, gloves in the other. Wren is near the tunnel with Donnelly, holding a clipboard and a bundle of towels. She’s in black jeans and a PCU sweatshirt, hair clipped back, face calm in the way people look calm when they’ve had to build it from scratch.

Her eyes flick to me.

The hallway disappears.

Not really. Obviously not. The team is moving around us, skates clacking, Coach barking something at Weston, Donnelly swearing under his breath because someone forgot a tape bag. But for half a second, all I see is her lying on my chest this morning.

Her hand tightens around the clipboard.

Mine tightens around my helmet.

Then she looks away.

Good.

No, not good.

I hate every option.

Morning skate goes better than I expect. My legs are fine once I get moving. My hip stops hurting once it’s loosened up, and my hands do what they’re supposed to do.

The game that night is ugly in the way road games get ugly when everyone is tired, and the opposing team is out for blood. Their defensemen hit late. Their student section chants my name in a way that would be more creative if half of them knew how to rhyme. Coleson takes a stupid penalty in the second, then acts like the ref was in the wrong for noticing.

We win 3–1.

I should feel better than I do.

I have an assist and a blocked shot that will bruise like hell by morning. Weston gets the empty-netter and celebrates hard. Asher stops thirty-one shots and says the last five were “annoying.” Grayson takes a puck off the shin, limps for exactly one shift, then glares at me when I ask if he’s good.

By the time we’re back on the bus, the rain is barely a sprinkle, and the whole team is running on exhaustion and vending-machine sugar. Wren sits near the front with Donnelly again, earbuds in, head resting against the window. She doesn’t look back.

I look forward too much.

“You’re getting weird,” Weston says from across the aisle.

I don’t take my eyes off the dark road. “I’ve always been weird.”

“Yeah, but this is brooding weird. You’re usually scary-calendar weird.”

Asher, behind him, hums. “Accurate distinction.”

Grayson looks at me from the seat beside mine. “Leave him alone.”

Weston grins. “That means there’s something to leave alone.”

“Or it just means you’re annoying,” I say.