Page 18 of Checking All Her Notes
He flinches. Actually flinches like I’ve hit him.
For a moment, it looks like he’ll turn back. His hand twitches. His jaw works. He takes half a step toward me.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns and walks into the locker room. The door swings shut behind him with a hollow thud that echoes down the empty hallway.
I stand there too long. Long enough that the hallway lights start flickering, the automatic timer thinking everyone’s gone. Long enough that my eyes start stinging and I have to blink hard to keep the tears from falling.
When I finally move, my legs feel shaky. Unsteady.
I pass Finn in the hallway near the exit. He’s got his gym bag and car keys, clearly heading out. He hesitates when he sees me, awkward in that way guys get when they can sense emotions they don’t know how to handle.
“Hey,” he says carefully.
“Hey.”
“He’s been off today,” he says. “Probably no big deal though.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
Finn gives me a sympathetic half-smile. The kind that says he knows I’m lying but he’s too polite to call me on it. “He likes you, you know. That’s the problem.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“With Blockton?” Finn shrugs. “Nothing does.”
He leaves and I’m alone again in the hallway that smells like ice and rubber and old coffee from the vending machine.
Outside, the parking lot is dark. The first snow is starting to fall again, heavier than last night. Fat flakes that stick to my windshield and melt into tiny rivers.
I pull my coat tighter and head toward my car, fumbling for my keys with numb fingers.
A muffled cheer carries from inside the rink. Someone’s still running drills. I glance back through the glass.
Jude’s on the ice again.
Of course he is.
He’s skating hard. Punishing himself with sprints that would make most people collapse. His movements are sharp, aggressive. He’s practicing defense. Alone. Against no one.
Just him and his demons on the ice.
I watch him for a moment, my breath fogging the glass. He doesn’t see me. Doesn’t know I’m still here.
And I realize this might not be something I can fix with a smile or patience. And music lessons definitely won’t help. This is bigger than a broken window or a missed beat. This is him deciding he doesn’t deserve something good before even giving it a chance.
I whisper, “Come on, Bruiser,” but the glass steals the sound. Swallows it whole.
He keeps skating. Alone under the harsh lights. A lone figure on an empty rink.
And I walk away. I really don’t have any other choice.
six
. . .
The bannerabove the stage reads “Briarwood Heroes Charity Auction — For the Youth Rink Fund!” in letters that are simultaneously too big and poorly aligned. That must have been done at the last minute.
