Chapter Thirty-Eight
Later that week, I’m sprawled on my couch, legs extended on an ottoman, remote balanced on my stomach, consciousness hovering between awake and vegetative when my phone buzzes. I look at the phone screen and answer, bracing for impact.
“You’re becoming an influencer,” Zoe says.
“Yeah, I’m thinking of slinging meme coins on Instagram for my next act.”
“God help us all.”
I sit up and turn off the television as I put her on speaker-
phone.
“I’ve been watching your games,” she continues.
“And?”
She huffs like complimenting me requires physical effort. “You’re actually…getting good.”
“You mean great?” I say.
“No, I mean ‘good.’”
We both share a soft laugh.
“I mean it, though,” she continues. “Not just on the ice. I was really proud of you during the CBA negotiations. You stood up for your teammates. You had a spine.”
Her words shoot a much-needed warmth through me.
“You just might be a stand-up guy after all,” she says.
“Alright, what’s the real reason for this call?” I know it wasn’t to sit here and shower me with compliments. “You buttering me up for something?”
“Can’t I call my little brother without an ulterior motive?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. Fine. Well, here’s the deal. It’s winter break for Lila next week, and she wants to fly back to New York.”
My grin is immediate and genuine. “Oh, she wants to watch Uncle Liam dominate in the final regular season game and cheer me on as I lead the Sentinels into the playoffs?”
“Not quite.”
My grin wavers. “Then what?”
“She really wants to see The Nutcracker.”
I stand up on instinct. “The Nutcracker?”
“Yep.”
My brain scrambles for alternatives. “I mean, I can get her a jersey. A signed stick from the entire team. Something cool.”
“She doesn’t want ‘something cool,’ Liam,” Zoe says. “She wants to see The Nutcracker. Problem is that every performance is sold out already. I was hoping you might be able to work some magic and get us two tickets for the night of December fifteenth.”
The fifteenth. Game night for the Sentinels. Not just any game—the must-win regular season finale that will determine the team’s playoff fate. And my niece wants to spend it watching ballet instead of watching me potentially secure our playoff spot.
“Okay,” I manage, voice steady—kind of. “You said the fifteenth, right?”
“Yes, Liam. The fifteenth. One. Five. Do you want me to text you the date, or can you remember it?”
“I got it; I got it.”
“Good. Now can you get them?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. I’ll text you details of the trip. Love you.”
“Love you too, bye.”
I stand and walk to my kitchen where I open the refrigerator and look for something to snack on that may magically solve my ticket problem. Halfway through a bag of beef jerky, I make the call I don’t want to make but have to.
“LeClerc, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rocky picks up on the first ring.
“I need a favor.”
“Shocker. Lay it on me.”
“Nutcracker tickets for December fifteenth.”
Rocky snorts. “You know we have a pretty important game that night, right?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Thanks for the reminder, Rocky. I had completely forgotten about the biggest game of the season.”
“Just making sure you’re still grounded. Why do you need Nutcracker tickets on game night?”
“For my sister and niece.”
Rocky hums. “For family, huh? I suppose I can pull some strings.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Hey, by the way,” he adds, “does this have anything to do with a certain ballerina—”
“No,” I cut him off.
“Okay. But if it did, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
I sigh, rubbing my face with my palms. “Just get the tickets, please, Rocky.”
“I got you.”
I set my phone down on the counter, fingers lingering on the cool marble surface.
My gaze drifts to the window where New York sprawls in all its chaotic glory, lights flickering like synapses, energy flowing like blood through concrete veins.
Something about this moment feels different.
Like tectonic plates shifting beneath the surface of my post-Petra life.
And now, just when I’d convinced myself to leave the past in its grave, Petra resurfaces.
Not directly—that would be too simple. Instead, she haunts the edges through a ticket request, through my niece’s preference for tutus over hockey jerseys, through the cosmic joke of The Nutcracker happening while I’m fighting for our season.
Maybe it means nothing. Just a coincidence in a city full of them. Or maybe it means everything. Maybe the universe is less comedian and more choreographer, setting up movements I don’t understand yet.
I stand in my kitchen, where Petra and I cooked together, where we laughed and kissed, where we fought, and where we fell apart.
The fifteenth is coming whether I’m ready or not.
Game night and Nutcracker night, my world and hers, existing in the same city on the same night.
Parallel universes, no longer one. We make plans like promises to ourselves, but life keeps its own calendar.
The best we can do is show up to our appointments on time and hope the universe keeps up its end of the bargain.
Maybe I’ll make the playoffs. Maybe Lila will love the ballet. Or maybe none of that will happen, and this is just another moment where life reminds you that control is an illusion, and the universe’s favorite hobby is irony.