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Howl shoves his nose into my crotch the minute I push open the front door.

It’s the same move he takes every time I come home from the rink.

He starts with the delicate parts first before inspecting every other inch.

I rest my hand on the soft fur between his ears, ruffling them back and forth as he lets his tongue flop out in what I assume is a doggy grin.

“Hver er góeur strákur?”

He leans against my leg, leaving long white hairs on the navy cotton of my sweatpants and sneezes as if to say “It’s me.

I’m the good dog.” I smile even as I shake his snot off my fingers.

He sneezes again—I’m half-convinced he’s allergic to the metallic ice smell that seeps from my pores—and coats the bottom of my pant leg in mucus.

“ Megi troll hafa tína vini.”

The look he gives me reminds me I’m his only friend, which probably says more about me than him. So yeah… not my best insult.

He follows me from the foyer into the kitchen and I pull a box of bone-shaped treats out of my pantry.

Yes, they cost a fortune at the farmers’ market.

Yes, I grumbled about it as I forked over two twenty-dollar bills.

Yes, I told the teenager working the register to keep the change.

Yes, I went back and bought more every week when it became clear Howl preferred the peanut butter and pumpkin flavor.

He prances at my side, paws tap-tap-tapping against the hardwood floor, and I toss him a cookie. He catches it easily in his jaws—something never guaranteed—and trots out of the room, treat held gently in his teeth.

“ Ekki málie ,” I call after him. The ingrate never says thank you.

I can hear him crunching away from his memory foam dog bed, the one he never uses for sleep, and I pull out my phone to send a quick message to my sister. She should be home from school now, just finishing up dinner.

Me

Your dog is a menace.

I send the message in English, anything to help her practice, watching as the three dots blink at the bottom of my screen.

Kitty Kat

…

No, he is not.

Photo please?

I wonder if she knows what “menace” means or if I should call her on it as I open the photos app on my phone.

I debate sending her an old one, but she’ll know—she always knows—and instead I follow my canine roommate into the living room.

He glances up long enough for me to snap a picture and send it to Katrín.

Kitty Kat

He needs a bigger bed.

I roll my eyes

Me

He does not.

Kitty Kat:

Yes! He doesn’t fit. See?

His feet stick off of the edges.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling as she sends the photo back, bright pink arrows pointing to Howl’s floating paws.

Me

He is fine.

Not only did the kid at the pet store tell me this bed could fit a small horse—something Howl is not, no matter how much food he packs away at dinner time—he doesn’t even sleep in the damn thing. He takes over mine, drools on my pillows, and snores in my ear.

Kitty Kat:

He’s my dog. That is what you said to me when you got him.

I say he needs a bigger bed.

She’s such a damn brat. I did tell her Howl could be hers when I brought him home. I love her so much.

Ragnar:

I’ll get one this week.

I may have to custom order one, but I can make something work.

Kitty Kat:

ég elska tig

I love her too. It doesn’t matter that I had already spent a decade in the United States by the time she was born.

It doesn’t matter that I was four years into my first NHL contract—Columbus—when our parents passed and Amma took over raising her.

I offered to move home. To take care of both of them. I was immediately rebuffed.

Another decade later and I know it was the right choice.

I have little to offer in the way of job prospects, other than my skill between the pipes, and the NHL undoubtedly pays the best if I’m going to stick to playing hockey.

Contrary to what many believe, it isn’t a popular sport back home.

It’s half the reason I was sent away and fostered in the USA.

Opportunities for a kid showing real promise on the ice? They were slim to non-existent.

Knowing that I was nowhere near equipped to raise a baby, and that I had no job prospects should I return home with the equivalent of an American high school diploma, well it didn’t make me feel any better about the role I took in my sister’s life.

And it did nothing to ease the guilt of living over twenty-five hundred miles away.

So when Spags—the team rookie—showed up at the rink at the start of last season with a small white bundle clutched to his chest, it made sense to step in.

Here was something I could take care of.

Especially when added to the common knowledge that Jack Spaeglin has no business being responsible for another living creature.

And when bringing the puppy home meant hysterics from ten-year-old Kat, who desperately wanted her own dog?

Well, it was easy to tell her that Howl could be hers.

He was just already named and living with me.

In America. She took the idea and ran with it, even if she tries to change his name to something more distinguished at least once a month.

Ragnar:

ég elska tig líka.

Homework?

Kitty Kat:

You are not my dad, Ragnar. I already finished.

Go away.

And just like that, I’ve been dismissed.

“B—” I get stuck on the first sound and feel the muscles in my throat tense. I force myself to swallow. Try to shift my jaw. “Br—”

It’s tempting to give up. To push the word down and pretend I never tried to say something in the privacy of my home. No one would ever know. But I would.

“B—” I try again. “B-brat.”

The media had been at the rink this morning, asking questions about the up-coming season.

I’d avoided the cameras and microphones to the best of my ability.

In part, because my stutter is always worse in front of reporters, strangers.

Crowds. That’s not new. They avoid me for the same reason.

Why waste time with the stammering man who can’t seem to look away from his feet when they can talk to our charismatic captain?

Did that sound self-deprecating? It wasn’t meant to be.

I prefer it that way, but today they were almost impossible to avoid.

Everyone is eager to know if I’m back. And if so, if I’m good enough.

It’s the real reason I ducked into the trainers’ wing after practice.

My hip felt good out there on the ice, even if Coach eased me in to play.

It’s possible he thought I was going to push too hard.

That I’d over-tax myself, causing even more damage to my tender ligaments.

I don’t fault the line of thinking. It’s a misguided choice many players would make, especially early in their careers.

A mistake born of the same desperation that had me avoiding the journalists circling the boards like hungry polar bears.

What if I’m not the same?

What if I never am?

I swallow hard, a sharp pain in my throat as I push the fear down into the pit of my stomach.

I try to visualize it seeping down the length of my thighs, spiraling around my calves and then down into the hardwood floor below my bare feet.

It’s the same trick Coach Alan taught me during our first summer intensive together.

I was twelve, unable to place his directions into a language I could understand.

“Close your eyes,” he says, pushing his palm over the cage on my helmet. “Now, picture the rink-DON’T OPEN THEM,”

I snap my eyes shut and try to see the ice in front of me. Shiny, white, slick. Crisp blue and red lines.

“There’s a breakaway at the blue line,” Coach says, and I picture the big forward I’d faced off with that morning. The one from the state shaped like a mitten, smack dab in front of me, stick out as he taps the puck toward me. “Watch his shoulders and hips as he squares up for the shot.”

The imaginary center does exactly as Coach says.

“Keep your eye on the puck.” I almost hear the slap of the shot in my ears. “Slide in front of it, butterfly, close your glove.”

When I open my eyes, my glove is up as if I just caught the puck. For a moment, I’m surprised it’s empty.

“Left-hand larceny.” Coach slaps me on the shoulder. The force of it rocks me even through my shoulder pads. “Do that before a shoot out and I bet you steal the goal right out from under him.”

“You are f-fine.” I say the words slowly, allowing myself to pause and breathe between each one. Deep breaths to calm the pounding in my chest. I am fine. I am healed. Today was fine. Great actually. I even got to see…

My cheeks flame even just thinking about her.

And okay, the real reason I’d ducked into the trainers’ wing had less to do with avoiding the media. And everything to do with seeing…her.

Sadie Jones. Assistant trainer for the Arctic.

The woman who was with me every step of my recovery this summer.

Even as my heart thundered out of control, and I tried not to choke on my tongue.

There’s no point in noticing her. None at all.

When our captain Vic ended up with Tristan, or social media manager, the entire organization was in an uproar.

And even then, the ring on Tristan’s finger meant there wasn’t much they could do about it.