Page 160 of The Home Grown
“Wait—this is her sister?” I can’t stop the nervous laugh that escapes from my throat.
“How do you not know that?” she says. “And get your sweaty hands off.” She swipes her phone back and I lean in, keen to see more.
“I haven’t seen her sister in … years.” I bite my lip, briefly wondering if I should tell Vicky before deciding there’s no way I can keep this to myself. “Vic—if you knew something about someone doing something orsomeonethey shouldn’t be doing … would you tell someone about the something?”
Vicky’s jaw hits the shelf as she stares at me.
“Excuse me? I got lost on the first ‘some’… whatever,” she says, waving her hand. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I blow out a breath. “You remember Langer, right?”
“Yeah, he plays for?—”
“Don’t say it.” I hold my hand up, forcing Vicky to halt. “When I was doing the GB training camp, I saw Langer one morning, making out with someone in the lobby. And I’m ninety-nine per cent sure that was her.”
“Who? Kathryn?” Vicky says, pulling her eyebrows together.
“Yeah. Kathryn—who’s supposed to be engaged to some guy called Greg … who happens to be Langers best mate.” I pause before adding, “Langer is Greg’s best man.”
“Stop,” Vicky says. “Oh, my God.” Her hands fly to her mouth, phone still clutched tightly in her palm.
“So, do you think I should tell Kitch?”
I say it, but I don’t need Vicky to tell me the answer; I know I should tell her.
The reflection of the timer in the glass, ticking down on the jumbotron tells me I’ve eaten into too much of my warm-up time and the anxiety of not finishing my routine sits heavy in my stomach, causing me to abandon the real reason for my intrusion on Vicky’s time.
But as I skate away, I allow myself a glance in Ellie’s direction, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to tell her about her sister.
Chapter Thirty-Three
ELLIE
He’s barely said morethan a few sentences all morning, and absolutely nothing since we got into my car. He normally glances over at me while driving, but he hasn’t looked my way at all. All he does is stare at the road ahead, his hands clenched tight on the steering wheel at ten and two.
I turn my head to look at him again, trying to assess the expression on his face—is he pissed off? Upset? Anxious? I mean, they won both games on the weekend, so I don’t think it’s that. Could it be something to do with Team GB? Or is this something completely unrelated to hockey? Is it me? Did I do—or not do—something?
Oh, my God … did he work out that it’smebehind the hashtag?
“Mike? Is everything okay?” I ask.
He nods. Keeping his attention on the road ahead.
Okay, time for plan ‘B’.
“Kelly’s been teaching me about hockey,” I say, trying my ‘casual conversation’ approach. “I still don’t think I have a firm grasp on the delayed penalty thing, though.”
I pick a topic I know he’ll have an opinion on, but he says nothing. His jaw remains tight—clenched in an emotion I finally pick out as nervous.
What’s he nervous about?
“She explained the referee can delay any penalty, technically, by letting play continue until the opposing team loses possession.”
Still nothing. Not even a comedic gasp of shock that I’ve remembered and relayed a hockey fact.
“She said that due to the fast pace of the game and how quickly the opposing team usually gains possession or clears the puck, delayed penalties are rare in the grand scheme of things. Refs whistle most penalties because the opposing team usually ‘touches up’ soon after the call.”
Nada.
