Page 91 of If Only You

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, then glances over his shoulder, searching the box where his family sits, but no sign of his wife. “I’m worried about Frankie. She doesn’t just puke.”

“Don’t start that shit again.” I skate back, putting six feet between us in half a second.

He raises his gloved hand that isn’t holding his stick. “Sorry.”

Arneaux passes me the puck, and I flip it up onto my stick, messing around. “She’ll be all right, Ren. I know you worry about her, and I know she’s got her health issues, but you gotta trust her. If she says she’s okay, she’s okay.”

“She used to lie to me about that,” he mutters, taking the puck when I pass it to him and working it back and forth as he switches sides of his stick, “her being okay.”

“‘Used to’ seems like a pretty important part of that sentence.”

He peers up at me, pale eyes narrowed. He glances down at the puck and sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. She doesn’t do it anymore. She promised me she wouldn’t, and she hasn’t since. I need to trust her.”

“Plus”—I nod up toward the box where his family sits, Frankie now nestled in among them—“she’s not alone. They’ve got her.” Frankie sets down what I know by now is a root beer with a straw in it—it’s always her drink of choice when we periodically meet to talk business over a meal—and waves to Ren.

Ren lifts his glove, staring at her. “Yeah, they do.”

My gaze travels his family’s faces. His parents, who smile and wave, who I smile and wave back to. Viggo, who I scowl at when he sticks his tongue out at me like the child he clearly is. A couple I vaguely remember from the wedding—the man has dirty-blond hair and a beard, the woman, with curly waves that pop out of a bun on her head—offer a wave as Ren smiles at them. Frankie, who smiles around the straw in her root beer, eyes locked on Ren, then—

Oh, Jesus. My heart slams into my ribs.

Ziggy, all dimples and freckles, smiling wide as she waves. She’s wearing the cutest goddamn fluffy black earmuffs I’ve ever seen.

I lift my glove and wave back, trying to remember how breathing works.

“How about you get us a goal or two tonight?” Ren says as he circles me, pulling the puck with him. “Just for the pleasure of hearing my sister whistle. You think you can make some sound? Just wait till you hear Ziggy.”

26

ZIGGY

Playlist: “You You,” Odetta Hartman

Well. This is going to be a problem.

Watching Sebastian play hockey is a huge turn-on. He’s a brilliant player, which I knew already from having attended Ren’s games since Sebastian signed. But knowing him now, a month into what began as a mutually beneficial publicity stunt but became so much more, I feel this profound sense of pride and happiness, a connection to this person soaring across the ice that I didn’t have before.

It’s the third period, two measly minutes left, and LA’s down one, thanks to some slipups on the defense and an unlucky flub on the part of Valnikov, the Kings’ goalie. Even so, Sebastian looks cool and composed, unfazed by the pressure that’s on him as he bends low, dark hair curling up around his helmet, watching Ren lean in for a faceoff, fresh off Anaheim’s latest goal.

I watch Ren win the puck, which he sends Sebastian’s way.

Sebastian flies across the ice, feinting, weaving, lightning fast as he moves the puck, beating one player, then another. Ren’s not as fast as Sebastian, but he’s pretty darn close, quickly catching up to him. It makes me smile, watching them out there together. I bounce nervously in my seat, my hands clasped in front of me.

Whether it’s two years of playing together or some kind of fundamental connection between them, Ren and Sebastian have moved the puck across the ice flawlessly all night, finding each other in the most improbable moments, in a way that steals your breath.

As Sebastian closes in on the goal, Anaheim’s defender skates up to him, swinging his stick, trying to steal the puck. But Sebastian’s too quick, pulling it between his skates, then through the defender’s legs—a nutmeg, we’d call it in soccer—that makes the arena burst with excitement. As the defender spins, well and truly beaten, and the goalie angles toward him, Sebastian flicks the puck across the crease to Ren, whose stick creates a delicious slap as it connects with the puck, burying it in the net.

I scream—we all do—jumping up and shouting as the buzzer sounds and the light over the net whirls to life, flashing red. Frankie and I hug hard, jostling each other while we watch the Kings swarm Sebastian and Ren as they skate up to each other and embrace.

Over my brother’s shoulder, Sebastian peers up, and my heart skips. His eyes find mine, and he grins, wide and sweet, not even a shadow of that sardonic smirk that showed itself so often when we first started all this.

I smile at him, too, bursting with pride. I know he’s not mine to be proud of, but he’s still my friend. I can’t help it.

Reaching around Frankie, I knock my brother Ryder’s shoulder. He glances my way, puzzled. “Heads up,” I tell him.

After losing most of his hearing due to bacterial meningitis, Ryder wears hearing aids, and what I’m about to do will make him miserable if I don’t warn him. He grins, reading my excitement, knowing what I want to do. After a quick maneuver with his hearing aids, he nods my way, giving me the all-clear.

Setting both pointers in my mouth, I let out a whistle that reverberates around the box, making everyone yelp and laugh.

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