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Like the other fifteen teams playing.
We watch the Zamboni go around the ice, taking the chopped-up mess and making it glassy smooth again.
Today’s been a weird experience. From rushing out to Jacob’s truck, fighting the overwhelming feeling that he’s safe and the Camerons aren’t, to getting on a private jet and being haphazardly introduced to the hockey team and the coaches—spoiler alert: no one really cared that I was coming along—to being in New York City. For not even a full night.
We’re in a different time zone. Something that probably was normal, andfeelsnormal, but is completely odd. It’s nine o’clock at night here, but in Denver it’s seven. Thomas and Natalie are probably finishing dinner, preparing for work tomorrow.
Meanwhile, my life is just fracturing, over and over again.
For once I’d like to get a handle on it. To put my mind back together.
Being back in New York does nothing for my memory. I’ve been mindful of the senses of déjà vu, but even those are lacking lately. No cold foreboding, like when Thomas’s colleague called medarling. A word that, even in my head, makes me shudder. No tingling heat, like when Jacob looks at me a certain way.
I shouldnotbe attracted to him. He’s young. And he says we were friends, so it’s not like anything would even happen anyway. But I can’t figure out what sort of friends we were. He could’ve been a well-meaning acquaintance, for all I know. The probability that we were anything more is low. Right? Where would I have even met him?
See? I know nothing.
“Melody?”
I spin around, expecting someone on my level. In the alleyway that leads to the lockers.
“Up here!” A blonde leans over the rails above me, waving. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t recognize her.
Shocker.
I’m working out how to convey that with the ten-foot gap between us, but the words aren’t coming.
The woman grips the railing, her brow furrowing. “What, two years of silent treatment isn’t enough?”
I open my mouth, but she’s already straightening and turning away.
I memorize her outfit.
Black leather jacket over a gold Guardians shirt. Black-and-gold beanie. Jeans, boots.
“You know her?” Kristy asks.
“She knows me,” I answer. “I don’t know who she is.”
“You should go after her.” She nudges me, then points at how to get up into the stadium. “You have your lanyard, you’ll be able to get back here. Go.”
She’s right.
I seize the opportunity and give chase, rushing and pushing until I’ve made it to the top of the section. I scan the crowded hallway and spot a leather jacket.
“Hey!” I catch up to her, tapping her shoulder quickly before I lose my nerve. My stomach is suddenly in my throat.
She turns, her eyebrows hiking.
People flow around us.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, because… well, Iamsorry. For past-me’s mistakes, for whatever I did willingly or unwillingly.
Her expression softens, and it’s then that I know two things: I must’ve been good friends with her. And I really fucked up. Because she still appears hurt, even after the annoyance fades.
“I…” Fuck it. “I’m so sorry. Who are you?”
