Chapter 14 - Carissa
~
Carissa
The rotors thumped against the sky, reverberating through my palms. I tugged the collective up a fraction too late and the nose dipped. I caught it before my instructor could say anything, and corrected. My hands still shook though, and the cyclic felt heavier than it should.
I tried to sink into the motions that were supposed to clear my head. Usually, being in the air meant everything else fell away, but not today. My pulse rattled in time with the rotors. My hands weren’t steady. My foot slipped off the pedal for a half-second and the yaw jerked.
“Adjust your trim,” the instructor’s voice threaded through the headset.
I muttered an acknowledgment, fumbling with the controls, overcompensating, and caught the helicopter twitching under me. My foot slipped off the pedal for a second, yaw jerking, and I muttered again, trying to hide the spike of panic.
Every twitch made me question myself. My head kept drifting to Dawson and his cold shoulder all week, the silence, the look in his eyes the night before.
I was sure I’d be fired after the whole thing with Boone, but that didn’t happen.
All I had for company was the strained sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Carissa, focus.”
“I am,” I said, voice tight, tighter than I meant, echoing inside the helmet.
The city unfolded beneath me, glinting and indifferent.
The wind tugged at the skids, at my hair through the vents of the helmet, and for a moment I imagined it could carry some of the tension away.
That the sky would somehow separate me from this hell-week.
But every gauge felt like a reminder that I wasn’t where I should be.
Not in the air, not at work, not in my own skin.
“Let’s run a hover,” the instructor said.
I coaxed the helicopter into place, gripping the cyclic so hard my knuckles ached, letting my eyes dart between instruments and horizon, half-watching, half-waiting for more failure.
My mind snapped to the evening ahead, and I forced myself to breathe.
Dad. That was the lifeline in this mess.
Catching the game with him, then dinner after.
Solid ground in the storm. My pulse eased slightly.
I could focus on the lift beneath me and the sound of the rotors, imagining him there, calm, smiling. A welcome, easy end to this day.
“You here, Carissa?” My instructor’s voice threaded through the helmet.
“Here,” I muttered, foot nudging the pedal again. “It’s… been a rough week.”
“I can tell. How about we leave all that stuff on the ground next time?”
I nodded again, my jaw tight. I felt raw, stretched thin, waiting for a judgment I’d already imagined. I let the cyclic rest in the center, took a breath, and steered us back down.
Landing was a relief and a tease at once. The rotors slowed, vibration fading, leaving silence in the cockpit except for the faint whistle of wind through the vents. I shut off the headset and let the helicopter settle beneath me.
Stepping out, the sun leaned toward late afternoon, painting the tarmac deep gold that would soon turn orange. Tonight. All I had to do was get to the game, and then it would be my dad’s time. He’d fix this heavy cloud hanging over me.
The thought was a lifeline as I crossed the concrete, breath steadying just enough to believe maybe, for a few hours, I could feel like myself again.
*
The lights were already up to full blast by the time Henry and I found our seats, the ice below a clean white sheet waiting for violence.
Screens looped hype videos overhead. The crowd kept swelling, bodies funneling down the aisles, jerseys flashing gold and black in every direction.
The T-Mobile Arena never did subtle. It pressed in on you, sound and motion stacking higher by the minute.
Henry wriggled beside me, legs swinging, sneakers knocking the seat in front of us until I caught his ankle.
“Hey,” I said under my breath. “Indoor feet.”
He scowled, then twisted again, craning his neck toward the ice. “When are they coming out?”
“Soon.” I checked my phone. No new messages. I tipped it face down on my thigh, then picked it up again almost immediately.
My dad should’ve been here already.
Henry shifted again, tugged at the collar of his Knights jersey, then leaned across me to wave at someone three rows down who definitely wasn’t waving back.
Disappointed, he changed the topic. “This shirt’s itching me.”
“The shirt’s fine.”
He’d been fussy all day, five times worse after I’d gotten back from my flight practical. Too loud, then sulky. Asking questions he already knew the answer to. Stomping, getting bored every ten seconds…
He stared wistfully at a kid two seats down in our row. “Can I have some cotton candy?”
“No.”
He huffed, crossing his arms in a way that made his elbows jab my side. A few seconds later, and, “Can I have some popcorn then?”
Around us, people stood and sat in uneven waves, checking seats, arguing good naturedly over beers, pointing at the ice.
A kid behind us kept chanting Dawson’s name, over and over, until his dad bribed him into a lull using a pretzel.
I scanned the lower bowl again, instinctive, useless.
My dad wasn’t going to be on the ice, but my eyes kept going there anyway.
Like he might materialize through wishing.
Henry tried to get a look at the tunnel. “Why’s it taking so long?”
I followed his gaze, then glanced at my watch. “Any second now.”
“This is boring.” He sank into his seat with a hard sigh, rolling his eyes.
“It hasn’t even started.”
“That’s the boring part.”
I smiled despite myself, then felt it slide right off when my phone buzzed. I flipped it over too fast, heart kicking in my chest.
Not Dad. Just a team alert.
The screens cut to black, and a ripple went through the arena. People rose to their feet. Henry scrambled up on his seat as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. I had to grab the back of his jersey to keep him from toppling head first into the next row.
“We could always go home and watch this on TV,” I warned.
He dropped back down, eyes wide now, attention finally locked in. The anthem singer took her place at center ice, and the arena held that strange pause that happened before everything tipped forward.
My phone vibrated again, and this time it was the person I’d been waiting to hear from.
Relief hit first. I unlocked it with my thumb, already smiling.
Hey kiddo. I hate to do this, but I’m not going to make the game tonight. Last-minute tour, first thing tomorrow. Rain check on dinner? I’m so sorry.
The words blurred, then snapped back into focus just as the singer hit the high note. Roars of approval. Confetti cannons. Celebrations that didn’t give a shit about the disappointment sinking in my gut.
“I see them!” Henry pointed to the ice, singling out Dawson, Boone, and Gage as they circled through warm-ups.
I locked my phone and slid it into my pocket before my face could do something unhelpful.
Somewhere in the mess of it all, I tried to find the excitement he wanted to share but it was no use.
He grinned wide as the guys lined up, and I forced a smile.
I was going to have to bullshit my way through this. For the kid’s sake.
The noise crested around us, and something inside me gave way. Not all at once. Just enough to let the day seep in. The flight. The uncertainty of my position in this job. Dawson’s distance. Boone, like a live wire under my skin.
And now this.
My one steady thing pushed back to some undetermined date on the calendar.
The lights dimmed further, with a spotlight tracking the guys. The home crowd surged to its feet again, sound punching straight through me.
Henry cheered, full volume, joy uncomplicated.
I stayed seated for a beat longer, phone heavy in my pocket, smile fixed in place, telling myself I could hold it together. At least until the noise drowned out everything else.
The opening faceoff snapped the arena into motion without ceremony. Sticks clacked, and skates bit the ice. Bodies surged at once, like the place itself had sent them flying.
Dallas Stars came out heavy. Nothing flashy, but determined to make their mark.
They closed space fast, swarmed whoever had the puck, and drove the Knights back into their own end within seconds.
One of their defenders shoved into Boone along the boards hard enough that the impact echoed up to our seats.
Boone popped back upright, jaw set, and chased the play without looking back.
Henry gasped beside me. “Did you see that?”
“He’s fine,” I said, more to myself than him. He wasn’t the one worried about how that was going to bruise later.
The Knights scrambled. A pass meant for Boone skipped past his stick and slid straight to a Stars winger, who turned it up ice.
Dawson cut across, late by a stride. He reached anyway.
And somehow missed. Dallas kept it and forced the Knights to retreat again.
The crowd grumbled. I muttered curses under my breath.
It wasn’t a disaster yet, but it felt off. Like watching two gears spin without quite catching.
Halfway through the first period, Gage crashed in to fix it.
He barreled through center ice and slammed a Stars player off the puck, sending both of them sprawling.
The puck squirted loose. A Knight scooped it up and dumped it deep to buy the team a much-needed breath.
Gage got back to his skates and stayed there, muscling his way into the corner again before the Stars could reset.
Henry bounced in his seat. “Is that Gage? He’ll show ‘em.”
“Mm,” I replied. “He sure will.”