Page 121 of Jaded

Hockey is his dream, so much more than it ever was mine, and he’d never miss practice without a good reason. Maybe that’s why I track down Coach after I Zam the ice.

“Come to talk about the Ice Out, Taylor?” Coach asks as I enter, not lifting his eyes from the screen of his phone. “You want to go deliver some invitations for me?”

“Where’s Olli?” I ask, because I don’t give a flying fuck about the Ice Out right now. Not when the whole world feels strangely off balance without the little ghost to haunt me.

“Sick.” Coach turns back to his computer. “I had him leave early.”

My stomach churns, becausesickisn’t the right word. It’s a word used to excuse something away when nobody wants the true explanation.

Sick? Bullshit.

Maybe that’s why I do the next thing, a bold, uncharacteristic bit of interference I wouldn’t have run with anyone except Sydney. “I want to check up on him. Do you know where he lives?”

It’s a toss up, whether Coach can—and will—provide me with the information. Legally, he probably shouldn’t. So I give him one more nudge. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Maybe Coach is concerned, or too distracted by the open tryouts, but he gives me the address, and then I’m in my car and on my way.

The tiny cottage sits at the end of a narrow, tree-lined lane, and everything about it isOlli. The aspens woven in with the pines along the road and towering up over the house. The dormant ivy creeping up the quiet stone walls, the steeply sloped roof. The silver truck in front. The snow cleared from the plants around the driveway and front walk, the clay pots arranged on the front porch, the plants peeking through the large bay window overlooking the snowy front yard.

I knock softly against the door. “Olli? It’s me. Nat.”

No answer. I shift sideways towards the big bay window, cup my hands around the glass, and peer into the dim room beyond. There are no lights inside, but the slanting morning sunlight seeps in enough to illuminate a small kitchen and dining area, a tiny living room, all one open floor plan. I can’t see much beyond that.

I return to the door and knock again, louder. “Olli?”

Nothing.

Another knock. “Aspen! It’s Mouse.”

Nothing.

Uncharacteristic worry churns my gut. He must be here, because his truck is here, and he wouldn’t miss practice to go hiking. If he’s sick and inside and not answering . . .

Something’s wrong.

My fingers curl around the doorknob, expecting resistance, but the handle turns smoothly. Like an invitation, or more likely, an oversight. Is it still an invasion of privacy if you’re legitimately concerned? Ifsomeone hasn’t answered their phone, isn’t coming to the door, the lights off . . .

Maybe it’s me he’s avoiding, I consider, and then the thought is gone and I push the door open and step inside.

Faint motes of dust spin gently in the escaped sunbeams streaking through the bay window onto the lightly scuffed wood floor. It smells like him, the air of the dim kitchen, the open living-dining room, like strawberries and coffee, sweet and bitter all at once.

“Olli?” I call, my voice hushed, as if I’ve entered a church. My gaze sweeps the little room: the patched couch facing the warm yellow wall; the weathered coffee table between it and the matching TV stand; behind it, the empty glass atop the round dining table; the discarded plate and fork on the kitchen counter beside the sink.

Everything about it is soft, warm, worn down in a comfortable way.

Everything about it is Olli—but Olli isn’t here.

“Olli?” I start towards the hallway at the back. My tennis shoes echo hollowly over the wooden floorboards, giving the place a cavernous, empty feel it shouldn’t have, not with how small it is. “Olli? It’s Nat.”

The narrow hallway contains only two doors—the bathroom stands open, empty, the tiny shower and tub clean and vacant, along with the sink and vanity. Which just leaves . . .

I stand in front of another closed door, reconsidering my invasion of privacy once again. There’s no way he hasn’t heard me coming in, calling for him, walking around.

Unless he’s asleep.

I wince. How did I not consider that?

Well, I’m here. And he’s got to be behind that door, either ignoring me or avoiding me or asleep—all of which are good reasons for me to tuck my tail between my legs and retreat like the dog I am.

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