Page 48 of Burn Bright

“I’ll never bethatgood.”

“In comparison to what?” he asked in confusion. “You’re not as good as the other guys on the team? Or you’re not good enough for the NHL?”

“Both, probably.”

“Are you sure?” He frowned, disbelieving. “You’rereallygood, Pip. We’ve all seen you play.”

“You’re family. You would see me as the best. It’s natural bias.”

His brows didn’t uncinch. It felt like he disagreed, but he let it go to ask point-blank, “Do you like hockey?”

“Do I like it?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Like it’s all you think about. All you dream about. You would lose sleep for it. You would wake up in pain and still get on the ice because you’re more afraid of the day where it all comes to an end.”

I stared at him for a long beat. “Is that what ballet is for you?”

“It’s everything,” Beckett said from his soul. “And hockey…?”

“Isn’t that,” I breathed. “I just like being better-than-slightly-average at something.”

I didn’t tell Beckett about my ultimate plan.

The one I’ve been constructing for a while now. No one would want me to go through with it, but it’s already been set in motion. The biggest derailment has been New York. I was never supposed to be here.

One new step: I need to drop out of MVU before the semester ends. Well before January. So there’s really no point in joining the team if I can’t stay through the season. I just want Coach Haddock to feel like his effort to recruit me wasn’t in vain. Maybe trying out can give him that.

But I hate this new step more than I ever did. Because of Harriet. Because I’ve already started getting attached to going to class with her. Because I’d rather be with this resilient as fuck girl than anywhere without her, really.

At breakfast, I changed the subject off hockey and asked Beckett, “Do you usually eat alone? Before I moved in, I mean.” No one had joined us this past week.

He glanced toward the hallway to Eliot and Tom’s rooms. “On occasion Eliot will wake early enough before he works out.” His yellow-green eyes darted to me, then to his avocado. “And most of the time, Charlie would already be up, but not always.” He added fast, “He’s rarely in New York all seven days of the week. That’s not because of you.”

I’ve borne witness to that too.

Charlie has been MIA for entire days. I never catch him leaving the apartment, but suddenly, his suitcase will be propped against the door. His passport on the kitchen island. He’ll have returned from someplace outside the country.

“Where’d you go?” I asked on Saturday. It was past three a.m.

He stared me dead in the eyes. “I’m not the one who just got home.” He’d heard me come inside the apartment. I’d just returned from my first shift at the End of the World with Harriet.

“I’ve been out,” I said.

Charlie studied me for too long.

So I added, “At a bar. And you?”

“Montreal.” He walked to his room and shut the door. Leaving it at that.

It was honestly a bigger answer than the usual Charlie brush off.

This past week, if Beckett occupies my mornings, then Eliot tries to seize my nights.

“Come to a play with me, Ben.”

“You’ll love Duke’s on 10th, Ben. Best fries of your life.”

“Have you seenChicagoyet? I have an extra ticket that has your name on it, Ben. What say you, brother?”