Chapter 17
Mornings
Lenzin
“Does Hildy know?” Lucy asks.
“No, she does not.” I scowl at Anna, whose childlike grin only adds to my frustration as I plate the scrambled eggs I whipped up after Lucy barged into my room at six AM, insisting she was going to make breakfast and wanted to know my favorite kind of eggs.
“I’d appreciate it if you both kept that information to yourselves and let me ask her properly, like a gentleman. ”
Lucy glances at Anna, and they both erupt into giggles.
Anna is spilling secrets that are not hers to spill, but she and Lucy seem to be getting on very well, and I want that to continue.
“When are you heading back to Germany?” I inquire, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters.
Anna gasps theatrically, “That was rude.”
Lucy mimics her gasp, chiming in, “Faulker rude is not nice. Say sorry to our friend.”
“But I’m not sorry,” I retort, sliding the plate across the kitchen island. “And I don’t lie.” I fix my gaze on Anna, who is stifling laughter. I point the spatula at her playfully. “But seriously, how long do we get the pleasure of your company, your grace?”
Lucy giggles again.
“You’re a genius,” Anna says, lightly tapping Lucy’s nose. “You already understand his sarcasm.”
“Does sarc… sarc…ass… whatever that word is, mean when he’s funny and sassy all at the same time?” Lucy asks Anna, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Anna laughs again, clearly entertained by the innocent slip of Lucy’s tongue. I shoot her a glare. “Oh, God, I love ‘sassy’ as an adjective to describe him.”
“What’s an adjective?” Lucy inquires, tilting her head.
“It’s a word that describes something. Like that pink sweater,” Hildy says from the hallway, pointing to Lucy's as she approaches. “Or a—” she gestures toward her own attire.
“Gray sweater,” Lucy beams.
“Exactly,” Hildy replies, bending down to kiss Lucy’s forehead, and looking more than relieved she’s fever free.
“So Faulkers’s girlfriend is an adjective?” Lucy asks, smirking at me from the corner of her eye.
“Nope. ‘Faulker’s’ would be a genitive modifier, and ‘girlfriend’ is a noun,” Hildy responds, a hint of confusion in her voice.
Lucy’s lips twitch as she attempts to school her expression before asking, “What’s a genitive modi-thingy?”
“Nouns describe a person, place, or thing, so Faulker is a noun. And since you’re saying it’s his, then it’s possessive, which makes it genitive,” she explains, settling onto a stool.
“So, when he asks you like a gentleman to be—”
“You are a little stink pot,” I interrupt, tossing a towel at her, landing perfectly on her adorable, yet traitorous face.
“What did I miss?” Hildy asks.
I grab a paper towel, scribble on it, folding it into a crude approximation of a flower, and round the island, presenting it to Hildy.
“Even though I’m only offering you this crumpled paper towel instead of flowers, because these two are…
,” I growl at them and hold it out, “I have written you a note.”
“What is going on here?” she asks open into the paper towel and reading it. She laughs softly, which again sends the terrible twosome into a fit of laughter.
“They were ganging up on me. Bullied me into admitting I was very fond of you. Bullies. I asked for them to keep it to themselves until I had time to prepare, but apparently—”
“You gotta go to work.” Lucy laughs and Anna… snorts?
I look over at her at the same time Hildy does.
Hildy gets up and feels her forehead. “You, Queen Annaleise, have a fever.”
“Impossible, I’m immune to such nonsense.”
“What does immune mean?” Lucy asks.
“In this case, it means delusional,” Hildy says, heading to grab the thermometer.
“Hey, what did the note say?” Lucy asks.
“It said Hildy Sullivan, will you be my girlfriend, circle yes or no.”
Lucy nearly lays across the counter to grab the pen. “Hildy, you gotta answer. Do you wanna be his girlfriend?”
“Yeah, sure,” she calls back.
“She said what?” Hank laughs.
“I’m only telling you because you may want to continue avoiding the house.” I shut my locker and catch Aleks’ grumpy mug. “Don’t pout, you’re hearing it first.”
“This isn’t first, it’s in conjunction with him.” He nods to Hank.
Hank chuckles as he heads to the tunnel. “Perks of not leaving the Pad.”
“You fuck up anything and—”
I cut Aleks off, “I’ll eat my own balls.”
His head jerks back like I’ve slapped him and his jaw drops.
“You get your documents together so I can get it to the lawyer to transfer the deed?” Koa asks as he and Dash pass us.
“You got the money, just chill.” I answer then look back at Aleks. “Before you ask, yes.”
“You bought her the house?” he asks.
“Holy shit,” Dash laughs. “It’s for Hildy?”
“You three shut the hell up,” I glance around to make sure no one else heard. “It’s going to be a gift, and any of you mess that up for me, I’ll be pissed.”
Silence and then Koa says, “Chill out man. No one’s gonna say shit.”
Deacon's voice echoes across the locker room. "Ice time. Let’s move it."
The first lap burns, the second one opens everything up. My lungs expand, my legs find their rhythm, and the familiar white noise of the rink consumes the next half an hour.
I spot Aleks gliding near the blue line, his stick hanging loose though his eyes track everything. He waits until we're skating side by side before speaking.
"So," he hums, studying my face. "This is happening fast.”
“It is.”
“Ring shopping soon?" he asks.
"You're getting exclusive intel here." He nods once, accepting the confidence. "And when I do, which will be after I give her the house, so she knows that regardless, she and Lucy will be set up, properly. I will formally propose when it feels right."
His mouth quirks up. "You? Following protocol?"
"Careful," I warn, then add, "Assuming Lucy approves."
"I'm happy for you," he says, "but still annoyed you claimed not to know her."
"I told you I didn’t meet her at Ice House, and that is the truth,” I say, pushing off.
We form up at the blue line, shoulder to shoulder, then surge out and cut a circuit around the cones.
The two of us skate as if yoked, which we are, in ways that matter and some that don’t, and the axis of our friendship has always run through motion rather than silence.
Aleks doesn’t need to ask, not really—he’s clocking, the way he always has, every shift in my rhythm, every half-second delay or extra push.
He knows the difference between when I want to talk and when I need to move instead, and just like me with him, he allows it.
He lobs a pass to me during a transition drill.
I snap it back harder than necessary, and he grunts, grins, and doesn’t flinch.
We do this for the next five minutes—escalating, then easing off, like the old days at Yale, killing time on the ice every chance we could get, both with something to prove, a goal to work toward.
Each drill is a conversation; more honest than any confession we could muster in a locker room.
We run the same pattern half a dozen times, and by the seventh, Aleks is ready.
He glides in close, shoulder bumping mine, voice pitched low so the others can’t hear, “Your family will expect you to move back eventually.”
“That will be a decision, Hildy, and I make together, and they’ll get over it.” Truth is, they won’t. I still get shit about hockey. They’ve never gotten over anything, but I’m counting on a long career and the distance of the Atlantic Ocean to keep them at bay.
Aleks lets out a strangled laugh, and for the next three laps we don’t say another word, but the energy between us is looser, more definite. If you asked me to explain why, I couldn’t, but I know things are good with us.
Changing out of gear, I check my phone and see a message.
Anna:
I will not be sick for your game on Saturday, but Friday night, if I am, I want an IV drip so full of vitamins my piss is glowing so that I can power through.
When the next pops up, I realize Anna has started a group message, and Hildy is included.
Hildy:
Three days. Go to sleep, or I will take away your phone.
Anna:
Why are you texting me when you are right here?
“You have them in a group chat?” Aleks says, causing me to jump and nearly drop my phone.
“Anna’s doing, I assume.” I chuckle. “And Hildy must have taken her phone.”
When I walk in, I hear music and a sweet voice singing, Lucy, “I’ll follow you into the park.
Through the jungle, through the dark. Girl, I never loved one like you.
Moats and boats and waterfalls, alleyways and pay phone calls.
I’ve been everywhere with you.” I pause, removing my coat slowly as she continues, not wanting to interrupt, very happy to be here to listen.
“Home, oh, home, let me come home. Home is wherever Hildy is with Lou. Oh, home, let me come home, home is wherever Hildy is with Lou.”
I peek around the corner from the foyer and see Hildy dancing with Lucy, both have their hair braided, both smiling. I stay that way through the entire song, watching Hildy sing animatedly to Lucy.
I am not a man prone to sentimental theatrics, but as I stand here—one foot still inside the foyer, keys pinched between two knuckles and my coat slouched halfway off my shoulder—a surge of something purely animal, unexamined, surges up and scorches a line through the center of me.
It’s not just that Hildy and Lucy are singing and dancing, which I’ve never seen: it’s the way it feels like they’re smiling with their whole bodies.
Lucy’s joy reflected in Hildy’s eyes, their smiles and the obvious practiced steps of their choreography.
The track is a little corny, the lyrics a little too all over the place, with singing and then talking, but somehow the sound vibrates through this home and the hollow of my sternum, hitting me with more force than any puck that’s ever come at me.