Page 102 of Wonderstruck

Risky wasn’t exactly an insult, but it wasn’t a compliment either. It was one of those words that could mean brilliant or completely unhinged, depending on who was saying it.

Charles exhaled, like he was debating whether togive me more credit or tell me to tone it down. “You’ve got hands, no doubt about that. Your puck control is one of the best I’ve seen at your level—tight, controlled, deceptive when it needs to be. You see plays before they happen, and you don’t hesitate to take the shot when it’s there.”

I smirked. “Anyone would think you like me or something, Charles."

Heignored me. “You're unpredictable. You cutthrough defences like they’re not even there. You bait the opposition into committing to the wrong read, and before they know it, you’ve flipped the play and found an opening they didn’t think existed.” He paused. “But that’s where the risk comes in. Those other things don't matter when you're careless.”

I tilted my head. “You meancreative.”

“I mean reckless.” He folded his arms. “You playlike you’ve got nothing to lose, which makes you dangerous. But at this level? That can either make you a game-changer or a liability. You take risks most guys wouldn’t dream of, and yeah, a lot of them pay off. But the second they don’t? The second a defence reads you right, or a goalie anticipates that last-second deke? You leave your team wide open for a counterattack.”

I leaned back, twirling the pen between myfingers. He wasn’t wrong. I’d always played like that—like I trusted my instincts more than the playbook. But Ididtrust my instincts more than the playbook. And I’d built my whole game around that trust.

“Oh, you can take risks. That’s how you’ll knowwhen you’re ready.”

“For what?”

“Whatever it is you see yourself as when youthink about your future, on and off the ice.”

Grandpa had said risks were fine so long as Iremembered why I was doing this. What I was doing this for. And whether I would regret not chancing something that could lead to everything I’d ever wanted.

Myhead cleared with the truth, but before Icould let it linger, Charles sighed, running a hand down his face. “Look, you’d be a credit to theKnights when you’re ready to graduate. You’ve got the raw talant. But if you want to thrive at our level, you need to sharpen your decision-making. Know when to take the risk and when to rein it in.” His dull eyes rolled. “A skill Jack never cared to fucking hone.”

I let his words settle, my fingers still absentlytapping against the coffee cup lid.

I had a feeling I knew how this relationshipwould go, just from the way I could see him holding onto the threads of whatever ancient grudge he held with Grandpa. If this was all I’d be met with when I tried to better myself, if it was all coming back to Grandpa, then why fucking bother?

A sharp laugh broke out of me before I couldstop it, slicing through his words like a slap. The words I’d been dying to hear since I was a kid—you’re good enough for the Knights—barely registered.

“Is that what this going to be?” I ask, gesturingbetween us. “You denying me what you just said I’m good enough to do, all because of some pathetic grudge?” My arms lifted helplessly. “Are you really that fucking petty?”

His expression didn’t change, but the silence wasanswer enough.

Before I could press him, his phone buzzed.His eyes dipped to his screen before theyscanned me again. “Excuse me.”

Instead of sliding out of his chair, giving me thespace to breath, he stayed put, putting the phone to his ear.

Then switching to rapid-fire French.

“Laurent.” His eyes darted around the bakery ashe answered the call. “Non, non, c’est bon.”1 His gaze landed on me, sharp and cutting. “Oui, c'est lui. Et il est aussi arrogant que je m'y attendais. Comme s'il savait que ça énervait tout le monde. Comme s'il était heureux d'être un enfant gâté vivant dans l'ombre deJack.”2

I dropped my head, hiding the grin threatening tobreak loose. Biting the inside of my cheek, I let his words wash over me.

He huffed, giving me a once over. “Il estpeut-être bon, Guy, mais ce n'est rien d'autre qu'un enfant gâté.”3

Subtle.

As much as I wanted to fire back, to shred himinto pieces with the same ease he was trying to do to me, all I could think about was Rory. My Rory.

Rory, who would’ve smirked if she heard this,probably muttering something like,“Don’t waste your breath on him.”

Rory, who believed in me in a way no one else ever had.

Rory that had the kind of laugh that made the world stop spinning and the kind of heart that could outshine the darkest days.

I could picture her now, herhair half lit by the sunlight, her hand in mine, her voice soft but steady as she told me—again—that I was capable of anything. She was my anchor and my north star, all wrapped up in one impossible, perfect person.

“Je serai de retour en ville demain matin. Nousen reparlerons alors.”4

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