Chapter 7
Tampa
Lenzin
Ishould be asleep, but sleep evades me. The Tampa hotel room is cloaked in darkness, pierced only by a thin blade of city light that sneaks through the gap in the curtains.
Aleks lies sprawled in the other bed, one arm thrown over his face, a testament to the intensity he brings to every game.
He plays like each match is a personal quest to bridge the distance from Sofie Fairfax, and it’s almost admirable—borderline heroic.
I remind myself that I am genuinely happy for him, that he’s found someone who fits him well.
His ‘soul mate’, if you believe in that kind of thing.
The TV hums softly on mute, highlights cycling endlessly. I’ve replayed every one of my saves from every angle; I know which were instinctual and which require deeper drilling into muscle memory. That part of my brain is always alert, win or lose. Yet, it does nothing to quiet the chaos in my mind.
My phone finds its way into my hand again. I tell myself it’s just habit, a side effect of post-game adrenaline, the way my body remains in high gear. I check it anyway, my thumb hovering over the screen as if sheer patience might conjure something from the void. Nothing.
I let the phone slip back against my chest and turn my gaze to the ceiling. The room carries a mix of detergent and ice melt, with a faint metallic tang that lingers after a game—like the victory itself has weight and refuses to fade.
I think about the book—Custodians of Memory.
I can picture it exactly where I left it on the counter, angled just right so it’s visible without making a fuss.
Not hidden, not offered, just there—a breadcrumb that only Hildy would recognize for what it truly is.
If she picked it up, she’d understand. Not everything, of course; I’m not delusional.
But enough. Enough to know that I see her, and she sees me.
We’re both adults who shared a fiery night, perfectly capable of coexisting without making it a federal case.
It doesn’t need to be awkward. It shouldn’t be. Aside from hockey, this is one of my favorite activities—no need to pretend otherwise. I refuse to believe she feels differently. She’s practical, composed, adept at filing things away and moving on. That’s all this is: filing.
If she didn’t touch the book, that’s fine.
If she did but chose to ignore it, that’s fine too.
Either way, I’ve made my intentions clear.
I’m not confused, not ashamed, and certainly not pretending we didn’t recognize each other right away.
I roll onto my side, facing the dark, my phone finally resting where I left it.
We’re adults. We can handle this. Even if I know, deep down, that I am undeniably memorable and will never forget the inner wild one she is.
The rink has a scent that feels fundamentally wrong.
That’s the first thing that hits me as we step off the bus and into the arena for our so-called “optional practice,” which, in our world, is only optional if you enjoy showing up for the next game with legs that feel like they’ve been turned to decorative yard stakes.
The air inside is cool, technically, but it can’t mask the reality.
We’re in South Florida. The building is making a half-hearted attempt at winter, but the humidity has already snuck in like it owns a seat in the stands.
At first glance, the ice seems normal, but it has that faint sheen, a subtle softness that you only recognize when you’ve spent your life treating frozen water like it’s some sacred ritual.
Foreign ice. Tropical temperatures. It feels like a crime.
“You can’t tell me this is regulation,” Aleks grumbles behind me, his voice muffled as he pulls his hood up, as if fabric could shield him from Florida’s oppressive warmth. “I can feel the sun through the walls.”
Aleks jabs a finger toward me. “Tell me you don’t feel it.”
I remain silent because I do feel it. I just refuse to give him the validation he craves.
We skate.
The ice is softer than I’d like, and every stop sends up a bit more spray than it should.
It’s manageable, of course, because we’re professionals, but it’s irritating in that specific way only someone obsessive can truly appreciate.
The boards feel a little bouncier, and the puck glides differently.
Everything is off by a degree, and when your life is built on precision, a single degree is enough to throw you off balance.
Hank skates up late, helmet clipped on, hair still damp from the shower, already in a mood that suggests he woke up and remembered he gets paid to play hockey, treating that realization like it’s a personal victory parade. “Let’s go dominate this tropical slush.”
“Do not call it slush,” I retort automatically.
Hank grins at me, clearly having anticipated my response. “You hate it here, huh?”
“I hate nothing,” I counter.
Deacon coughs, and it sounds suspiciously like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.
Koa glides out, phone in hand, completely unrepentant. He’s the only one who can get away with it without facing any backlash, because his wife is pregnant, and we’ve all collectively agreed that makes him untouchable. It seems Coach D is ignoring it as well, huh, go figure.
He glances at the screen, types quickly, then looks back up. “She says the baby kicked again.”
Hank’s expression softens instantly. “That’s sick. Tell her the kid has elite footwork already.”
Koa’s smile is small and genuine. “I did.”
Aleks emits a sound that resembles physical agony. “Must be nice.”
“Okay, okay,” Hank calls as he backchecks like he’s auditioning for a highlight reel. “Everybody, stay calm. I’m basically a veteran now.”
“You are literally not,” Aleks says, skating by him with the tired energy of a man whose soul is still in New York. “You were born yesterday.”
“Jealousy is a disease,” Hank replies. “Get well soon.”
“He’s from Texas Killer, chill.” Deacon glides past us, stickhandling with casual control.
“Thank you,” I say, because Deacon and I share a mutual appreciation for not only silence, but Aleks taking it down a notch or twenty.
We keep the skate light. Some flow drills, some puck movement, nothing that risks a groin pull in a city where the air feels like hot soup. Then it’s showers, and the day is ours.
We emerge from the arena into Florida brightness so aggressive it feels like an attack. The sun hits my skin and my patience simultaneously.
Aleks squints at the sky like it’s a personal enemy. “I hate it here.”
“Liar,” Hank says. “You only hate it because Sofie isn’t here to hold your hand and tell you you’re brave.”
Aleks flips him off without looking. “I would be less miserable if she were holding my hand, yes. Thank you for noticing my feelings.”
Koa’s phone buzzes again. He glances down, thumbs a reply, and slips it away. “She wants to know if I’m eating enough.”
Deacon chuckles. “Are you?”
Koa considers. “Define enough.”
Hank hooks an arm around Koa’s shoulder like they’re lifelong friends, even though Hank does this to everyone. “We’re gonna get lunch. You’re gonna eat. For the baby.”
“For the baby,” Koa agrees solemnly, and Hank nods like he’s just solved world hunger.
We end up doing the kind of tourist day that feels vaguely humiliating until you realize everyone else in the world is doing it and you’re the weird one for acting like fun is suspicious.
A waterfront walk. A shop with shirts that say things like SALTY and SUN KISSED in fonts designed to be illegal. A place that sells keychains shaped like tiny alligators. Hank insists we take a photo by a massive decorative palm tree because he claims it has “vibes.”
Aleks looks like he’s being forced to participate in a hostage video.
“You could try smiling,” Hank tells him.
Aleks stares at him. “I am smiling.”
“That’s your smiling?” Hank asks, offended. “That’s your best?”
Aleks tilts his head. “My best is reserved for people who matter.”
Hank gasps loudly. “Deacon, did you hear that? He just told me I don’t matter.”
Deacon, unbothered, says, “You’ll recover.”
I keep my sunglasses on and let the sun bounce off my indifference. Externally, I am composed. I am above all of this.
Internally, I am pouting.
Not about the tourist nonsense. That’s harmless. It’s the fact that my brain keeps insisting on revisiting the same subject, like it’s trying to scratch at a scab.
Four days on the road. A day off. A game tomorrow.
And still, I find myself noticing things that remind me of a very small person I do not know very well, and the woman who came attached to her, like an unexpected clause in a contract I did not remember signing.
We stop at a little outdoor market. It’s the kind of place that sells local honey and handmade soap and painted shells that look like something a grandmother would proudly display on a windowsill.
Hank immediately zones in on a table of stuffed animals.
“Oh my God,” he says, eyes widening. “Lucy would lose her mind.”
Aleks drags his feet. “Isn’t she, like, asleep? It’s the middle of the day. Three-year-olds nap.”
Hank looks at him with profound disappointment. “You think joy has a schedule?”
Koa laughs softly, then checks his phone again. Deacon scans the stalls like he’s security, calm and present, letting the rest of us ricochet around him.
I drift toward a table of little trinkets. Seashell wind chimes. Bright, cheap bracelets. A rack of small toys that would absolutely not survive being stepped on by an adult and should be. Choking hazard.
I pick up a tiny shark plush, soft and ridiculous, with a stitched smile that looks absurdly sincere.
Lucy would love this, I think.
The thought arrives uninvited, and it annoys me.
I set it down. Pick it up again. Rotate it in my hand like I’m inspecting a piece of evidence. It’s pink, small enough for a child to carry, and harmless in the way that makes it difficult to justify refusing it.
Hank appears at my shoulder, holding two options: a pink dolphin and a green turtle.
“Help,” he says. “Which one is more Lucy-coded?”
I glance at them and get a bit irritated that he found not one, but two that were better suited than a shark. “Both.”
“That’s not helpful,” he complains.
“I’m not a consultant,” I tell him.
He squints at my hands. “Is that a shark?”
“No.”
“It is literally a shark.”
“It’s a fish,” I say, because I’m committed to nonsense now.
Hank laughs and leans in. “You’re buying her a shark.”
“I am not buying her anything.”
“You are. I can see it in your face.”
“You cannot see anything in my face,” I reply.
“You can’t act like you’re above it,” Hank says, dropping his voice dramatically. “You have been charmed by Lucy. Welcome to the club.”
I don’t answer, because that’s how you lose.
I turn the shark over, examining the tag like it contains legal fine print. Then I spot a different sea creature, an axolotl. It’s far more unique and would open doors to learning.
Then, without looking at Hank, I pay for it.
Hank’s grin turns feral. “Oh, this is huge.”
“It is a small stuffed animal,” I correct.
“It’s huge emotionally,” Hank insists.
I slip it into the bag, and the moment should end there. It does not.
Because the next stall over has books.
Not new ones. Old ones. Used, sun-warmed, with spines cracked and pages that smell like dust and paper history. The vendor has them stacked in uneven piles, and I pause despite myself, eyes scanning titles the way they always do. Reflex. Habit. Compulsion.
My fingers brush a familiar kind of cover, academic, understated, the title stamped cleanly.
For half a second, my brain does something stupid. It imagines buying a book for Hildy. Something practical. Something useful. Something that says, without saying, I am not making this awkward.
Then I catch myself so fast it’s almost violent.
No. Absolutely not. That is how things become awkward.
That is how people start attaching meaning to objects that were never meant to carry it.
That is how you go from adults handling something like adults to adults allowing logic to be overtaken.
I don’t need that. I don’t want that. I step back like the books might burn.
Aleks drifts up beside me, empty-handed, miserable. “If I buy Sofie a stuffed animal, do you think she’ll think it’s pathetic?”
Hank snaps his head toward him. “Yes. But she’ll love it.”
Aleks sighs. “She’s the only person I would willingly suffer this humidity for.”
“Write that on a postcard,” Hank says. “Send it. Commit.”
Aleks looks genuinely tempted, which is embarrassing for him.
Deacon reappears with a bottle of water and offers it to me without comment. I take it, because he’s the only one here with survival instincts.
Koa checks his phone again. “She says to stop buying random things for other people’s kids.”
“Please inform your wife that she and the girls set the precedent.”
Hank laughs, Deacon shakes his head, and Koa sends another text. His phone chimes, and he chuckles as he turns the screen. It’s a selfie of Nalani, flipping me the bird.
“Your wife is adorable, Koa.”