Page 35 of Captured Love

Willow scans the menu with the intensity of someone studying for an exam. “Maybe the avocado and brie panini...and a chai latte.”

“I’m going for the roast beef melt,” I say, setting my menu down. “And probably just water.”

A server comes by to take our order, and we settle back into our chairs. There’s a moment of silence where we just watch the activity around us, but soon we turn our attention back to each other.

“So, how's Dad?” I ask, breaking the silence. “I haven't talked to him in a bit.” I probably should call him instead of waiting on an update from Willow and Mom, but here we are.

Willow leans back in her chair, crossing her arms loosely. “He's good. Busy with some things at work, but you know howhe thrives on that stuff.” She pauses, then adds, “He’s been talking about taking Mom on vacation sometime soon. He also mentioned that he misses you.”

Guilt tugs at me. It's not that I don't miss my family, but between practices, games, and now this injury, I just haven't made the time. “I need to call him. Maybe this weekend.”

“You should,” Willow says, and for a moment I think she's going to leave it at that. “At least we’ll be going home for Mamita’s birthday party soon.”

I nod, relieved that we’ve shifted to safer territory. “Yeah, that'll be fun. I can’t wait for her famous tamales. You would think that because it’s her birthday celebration, she wouldn’t be cooking.”

“But it’s one of the many ways she expresses her love.” Willow smiles softly, and I can see her remembering the same scenes I am: Mamita in the kitchen, humming to herself as she kneads dough, the whole house filling with the smell of slow-cooked meat and spices.

Our food arrives, and the warmth from the plates creates little pockets of steam that mix with the restaurant’s cozy atmosphere. We dig in, the first bites always a test, and from Willow's expression, I can tell she’s pleased. I take a bite of my sandwich; the roast beef is tender, the cheese perfectly melted. It’s solid comfort food, the kind that temporarily makes everything in life seem manageable.

Willow sips her chai latte and then sets it down gently. “So, what’s going on with you, really? Outside of hockey and school?”

I chew slowly, buying time. How much do I want to tell her? “Not much. It’s just the season kicking my ass,” I say finally. “And now this shoulder thing.”

She looks at me, her green eyes—so much like Mom's—studying me as if she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “Knox,come on. I’m your sister and I know when you’re bullshitting me. You can talk to me.”

I set my sandwich down and wipe my hands on a napkin. “It's just... I'm worried about the draft, Wills. Scouts are at every game now, and I feel like I'm under a magnifying glass with this injury. One bad play could screw everything up.”

Her expression softens. “You’ve always done well under pressure. This is just another challenge.”

“Yeah, but it’s different now. It’s my future.” I run a hand through my hair, wincing as the movement pulls at my shoulder. “And if this injury takes me out for a few weeks…”

“You’ll recover. It’s not the end of the world.”

Maybe not for her. For me, it feels like a ticking time bomb. Every game I miss is one less opportunity to impress the scouts. Every practice I sit out puts me further behind.

I look at Willow, wanting her to understand the weight of it all. But how could she? She's always been into creating things while I was the athletic one. It’s all I’ve ever known.

“I know you think sports are ridiculous,” I say slowly, “but this is everything to me.”

She doesn't respond right away. Instead, she takes another sip of her latte, then looks out the window. “I don’t think they’re ridiculous,” she says finally, turning back to me. “I just have different priorities. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get why it's important to you.”

I want to believe her, and deep down I do. It’s just that I didn’t think I would be spilling out my deep, dark worries to my little sister, when it’s me who has been there to help her pick up the pieces of her life when they’ve fallen apart.

But you haven’t been around recently.

I take another bite, the sandwich now tasteless in my mouth. Willow's words linger, and I know she’s right. She’s always been more perceptive than I gave her credit for.

The thing is, I don’t doubt that she understands. It’s just easier to believe that she doesn’t—because if she truly gets it, then I can't dismiss her opinions as easily.

“I’m sorry,” I say, surprising myself. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you don’t care.”

Willow uncrosses her arms and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “It’s okay, Knox. I know you’re stressed. But remember, it’s not just you who has stuff going on.”

A spark of irritation flares up in me. Of course I know that. “Like what?” I ask, perhaps more sharply than intended. “What’s going on with you?”

She hesitates, and in that brief pause, I realize how little I actually know about her life right now. We’ve always been close enough to keep up with each other, but lately it seems like we’re both playing catch-up.

“Remember that internship I applied for months ago?” she says.

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