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My captain snaps his mouth closed and studies me.

I swear he’s looking into the deepest recesses of my brain, using a high-power flashlight to scare the secrets out of the corners.

I hate I had to say it. Not because I’m ashamed.

I’m not. I know how Sadie makes me feel.

Warm. Whole. Enough. Like Ragnar ólaffson the guy.

Not Ragnar ólaffson the goalie. Not Ragnar ólaffson who can’t talk right.

It’s a heady emotion. One I could never be ashamed of.

But I am ashamed of the implication of my confession.

I trust Vic with my life. Literally. He’s a great guy.

Possibly the greatest guy I know. He loves fiercely…

especially his wife, and Tristan has been nothing but sweet and supportive.

She’s been willing to work with me, keep me comfortable even as I have to fulfill my contract’s marketing quota. She’s great.

But that doesn’t make her any easier to talk to, easier to understand. Add in the time she threatened to have Spaeglin’s dick stuffed and mounted to a wall, and I can’t help being… nervous.

“Right. I’ll drop it.” Vic claps me on the shoulder and pushes off the boards. “But if you ever want actual advice, you know where to find me.”

I let him skate away without a word.

After ice time, we move on to the weight room and I’m still texting her.

Dumb stuff. Crossword clues. A picture of Spags mid-fall on the ice captioned graceful.

The spot on the blue line that looks a bit like an overweight penguin.

I don’t send a selfie, but I do send a photo of my thumbs up when she asks how my hip is doing.

I don’t want us to fall into trainer/player mode and I don’t tell her I took one corner a bit too fast, and it aches. I’ll probably need an ice bath later.

Her replies come in quick bursts peppered with emojis and sarcastic commentary. It’s easy. Natural in a way I’m not used to. Not since the long, quiet summers in Reykjavik . Not since she made my rehab days feel like something other than a punishment.

I’m halfway through a set of bench presses when my phone buzzes again. I reach for it on instinct, not paying a single iota of attention to the name at the top. I almost feel deflated when I realize it’s not Sadie.Then the guilt threatens to consume me.

KItty Kat:

I aced a test today.

I know you’re at the rink, but can I have a picture of Howl? Tell him I miss him, please.

I’m not proud of the swoop in my gut. This is my baby sister. Emphasis on baby. She’s texting about our dog, but that’s a ruse I know how to translate. Me. She misses me and I’ve missed so many important parts of her life. Her birth, for starters.

I was a rookie when she was born, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to step away from the season to meet the newest member of my family.

I wasn’t even starting then, but I remember the intense need that churned in my gut.

The one demanding I put in twice the work of everyone else I knew.

All because I was sure failure wasn’t an option.

And then my parents were gone.

I was only twenty. Wholly unprepared for taking on the responsibility of a toddler.

Not sure what I could even do. At that point, I’d already devoted a decade to hockey.

It made more sense all around for Amma to take over raising Kat.

She already lived in the same home. She was healthy, strong enough to keep up with an eighteen-month-old. And I… sent money.

My shoulders tense as a shiver wracks my entire frame.

I scroll through my camera roll until I find the one from yesterday — Howl sprawled on the couch, tongue lolling out, a yellow scarf tangled around his paws.

Sadie’s scarf. He’d immediately claimed it for himself.

I had gotten it away from him unharmed, but he was still trying to hunt it down this morning.

I send the picture to my sister—dog photos are the least I can do—and she hearts it immediately, but no little dots appear. She’s probably on phone lockdown.

An instinct, I open my social media app. It takes three tries to get my passcode right. I vow to never tell Tristan how infrequently I update my pages.

I upload the photo, muttering a few choice Icelandic curses when my thumb hits every button but the ones I need. This might not be the main reason I don’t use social media, but it’s definitely on the list.

“Somebody misses his favorite girl.”

Vic catches a glimpse of the screen, and gives me a smug thumbs-up.

“Nice,” he says. “The soft-launch. With a pup. Classic.”

Panic sets in fast. Fokk. I was too obvious.

The picture was for Kat, yes, but I picked that one for a reason.

A double reason. And then I wasn’t thinking of my sister at all when I put in on the photo site.

And I should take it down. Right? Just delete it?

That’s doable. I know the internet is forever but I can just…

“Don’t delete it,”

Vic snags the phone from my hand and holds it just out of reach.

I won’t jump for it. I won’t. I don’t care that he has it.

That I’m wasting valuable seconds I could use to make sure I didn’t just make this thing between me and Sadie irrevocably weird.

I’m cool as a pickle. Or whatever the saying is.

“Seriously. It fucks up all the algorithms and shit. And Tristan adores you, so I’ll be the one in trouble for letting you do it.” He leans in and drops his voice to lower decibel. “She’ll cut me off, Rags. From sex. Have mercy.”

“I-it’s for my s-sister.” I wipe my sweaty palms on the nylon of my gym shorts.

“Sure it is.” This time Vic winks, but he hands the phone back. “Don’t worry, I’m just giving you a hard time. I doubt anyone will make the connection.”

Unless they were with us at the orchard. Or Gershwins. That’s the part he doesn’t say out loud. He doesn’t have to.

I tuck my phone away, determined to finish my last set, but my stomach’s doing that ridiculous flutter thing again.

My phone pings with a reply before I’m even started.

A tiny red notification flag tells me I have two hundred and thirteen new notifications on my photo.

It takes two tries to get the link to show me what people are saying.

I know I shouldn’t read them. I never have before, but this time I need to see with my own two eyes what the response is.

Vic has me worried I’ve crossed some boundary.

Most of the comments say how cute Howl is, offering to watch him when I’m out of town, weird, or offering other things when I’m in town, weirder. I’m blushing so hard I think even my bones are lobster red. Then I see it.

@Just.Sadie.J…:

omg he looks so handsome. Give him ear scritches for me.

I scroll back and look again. Next to the username is a tiny circular photo. The woman’s face isn’t visible, just her back, but I recognize the fall of dark hair, a pale pink strand peeking out at her nape. I reread the comment once, twice, a third time before I type my response.

@Olaffson33:

Comeover anytime and do it yourself.

My heart pounds in my chest like I just pulled a full-ice sprint. It beats even harder when I get the notice that she liked my response. I pocket my phone, refusing to analyze it too hard. It’s nothing. It’s a joke. It’s normal. Banter. Part of the persona I’m supposed to learn to play.

But Vic’s also right. I am down bad.

I have been for a while.

It’s not something I can afford to want. The last thing I need is to hope for things I was never meant to have. Not when the only thing I’m good at—the only thing I’ve ever really had—is the game and the ice.

Another buzz against my thigh. A text this time.

Sadie:

Nice post!

I’m proud of you.

Me too, Sadie. Me too.