Chapter 18
chapter eighteen
The arena air was dry, freezing, and laced with something vaguely metallic, like cold steel and fried snacks. Oakland inhaled and immediately regretted it. The dryness burned her throat. Her lips chapped on impact.
She dug through her coat pockets like a woman on the brink, desperate for chapstick. No luck. Just lint and an ancient breath mint with the texture of regret.
The noise level hovered somewhere between chaos and jet engine.
Skates scraped the ice with alarming speed.
People were yelling—at players, refs, each other.
Oakland glanced up at the jumbotron, which was flashing stats and replay clips like it was trying to induce a seizure.
A massive foam finger bounced past her face.
She checked her seat: Section 5, Row 5, Seat 1.
Christine spotted her first. “Hey! Over here!” she called, waving dramatically from halfway down the aisle.
As Oakland got closer, Christine beamed. “Welcome to the barn.”
Oakland froze. “I’m sorry, the what?”
“The barn,” Christine repeated, deadpan. “You know. Hockey lingo. Loud, cold, kind of smells like sweat and fear.”
Oakland looked around. “Honestly, that tracks.”
She took her seat and scanned the scene. “Do all these people understand this game, or is it more of a group scream situation?”
Christine leaned in. “A little bit of both. You’ll get it. Eventually.”
Oakland shivered. “I think my goosebumps have goosebumps.”
Christine grinned and draped an arm over her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t worry. I run hot.”
Oakland narrowed her eyes but didn’t move away. “So this is part of the experience? Cold, yelling, surprise cuddles?”
Christine nodded solemnly. “That’s hockey, babe.”
Oakland let herself lean in for a second before reality kicked in. She stiffened, scanning the crowd, her stomach knotting. There was no way someone from church would be here… right? Then again, Mormons were everywhere, and her family’s name carried weight. If someone saw her?—
She pulled away, sitting up straight. “So, I missed two goals?”
Christine let her arm drop but didn’t seem fazed. “Yeah, my sister scored one.”
Oakland blinked. “No way. Which one’s your sister?”
“She’s on the bench now: number 14,” Christine said, nodding toward the ice. “She’s kind of a rockstar.”
As if on cue, number 14 looked up, spotted them, and immediately launched into an elaborate, obscene hand gesture that somehow involved a double peace sign and questionable tongue choreography.
Christine didn’t blink. “Yeah, okay. Ignore her.”
She took a long sip of her drink. “She was dropped on her head as a child. Repeatedly.”
Oakland looked back toward the ice, wide-eyed. “She seems… spirited.”
Christine shrugged. “That’s one word for it.”
They sat silently for a beat, pretending to care about the game. Eventually, Christine shifted toward her. “So… how are you doing?”
Oakland exhaled. She could lie. Keep it light. But the question sat there, weighty, expectant. “I’m alright,” she said, then hesitated. “Just… my dad’s been on my case.”
Christine quirked an eyebrow. “Anything I can do to help?” She batted her lashes playfully, softening the moment.
Oakland huffed a laugh. “Sure. You could become a Mormon guy, marry me, and knock me up.”
Christine grinned. “Mm, I’d be happy to try.”
They both laughed, the kind of easy, low laughter that lingered.
Then Christine tilted her head. “Do you want kids? Like, for real?”
Oakland blinked, caught a little off guard by the shift. “Maybe. I think… yeah. Someday. It’s hard to picture right now, but the idea isn’t totally off the table.”
Christine nodded, then grinned. “I want two. Eventually. A tiny little crew I can take on road trips and pack weird lunchbox notes for. I want to kiss my wife in front of them and have them groan and say ‘Ew, moms!’ Like, full dramatic eye roll while secretly loving it.”
Oakland’s expression was gentle, and something quiet was blooming in her chest. “Yeah. That actually sounds… really nice.”
Christine nudged her knee under the table, grinning. “You’d be the soft parent.”
Oakland scoffed. “Absolutely not. I’d be the strict one.”
Christine raised an eyebrow. “Mm-hmm. Sure. We’ll see how long that lasts when our kid flashes my big brown eyes at you.”
Oakland’s stomach did something ridiculous at that. “Okay, maybe ten seconds.”
“You know,” Christine mused, tapping her chin. “I could butch it up a little. See if your family buys it.” Her eyebrows waggled. “Thoughts?”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Oakland deadpanned. “But also?—”
She didn’t even finish the sentence.
The arena erupted. Sirens blared, the crowd roared to their feet like they’d all been electrocuted, and someone behind them bellowed, “TOP SHELF, WHAT A BEAUTY!”
Christine jumped up, hollering. “Sniped it from the blue line! That’s my girl!”
Oakland blinked at the scoreboard. 3–0. A foam finger smacked her in the ear.
Someone in the next row shouted, “That celly, though!”
“I have no idea what’s happening,” Oakland muttered, ducking as a rogue pretzel flew overhead. “But I need a hot cocoa before I get punched by a grandma.”
She pointed toward the concessions. “You want anything? Maybe a helmet?”
“It’s called a bucket,” Christine said, smirking. “Also, yes—coffee if you’re allowed to carry it.”
Oakland smirked, rolling her eyes as she ascended the stairs. The line at the concession stand was short, and she stepped up to order.
As the cashier turned to grab the drinks, she stuffed her gloves into her pockets and rubbed her hands together for warmth. The rich and bitter scent of coffee drifted up.
“Oakland?”
Her stomach plummeted.
When she turned around, Oakland’s sister was right there.
Kiley’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her arms crossed over her chest. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Oakland echoed. “What are you doing here? You hate sports.”
Kiley gave a thin smile. “I happen to enjoy hockey.”
“Yeah?” Oakland cocked her head. “Which team is ours?”
Kiley hesitated. “The… um, yellow ones. I do happen to attend this school, you know.”
Oakland snorted. “Lucky guess.”
“Here you go, miss,” the cashier said, handing her the drinks.
Kiley’s gaze flicked to the second drink. “Who’s that for?”
“A friend.”
Kiley’s lips pursed. “Dad’s worried about you.”
“Oh, so he sent you to spy on me?”
“You know how he is,” Kiley said with a shrug, her voice infuriatingly even.
Oakland sucked in a sharp breath, holding back everything she wanted to say. Instead, she turned and walked away.
But something boiled under her ribs, hot and reckless.
When Oakland slid into her seat, her hands were still trembling.
Christine frowned. “Everything okay?”
Oakland handed over the coffee, exhaling hard. “Just ran into my sister.”
Christine perked up. “Oh—she’s into hockey? That’s pretty cool. Where is she sitting?”
Oakland snorted into her cocoa. “Yeah, if into hockey means into spying and spiritual warfare, then sure. Totally cool.”
Christine blinked. “Ah. So… not cool.”
“Not even lukewarm,” Oakland muttered, hugging the cup like it might keep her from unraveling.
Christine didn’t press. She just scooted a little closer until their shoulders touched. “Can I help?”
Oakland’s nod came too fast, too practiced. “It’s fine.”
But her voice was tight. And her cocoa was already cold.
They sat like that for a while—quiet, close. Christine’s shoulder pressed into hers, grounding her. But Oakland could still feel Kiley’s presence like static behind her, tucked somewhere in the crowd. Watching. Waiting. Like she always did.
It was the same dance they’d done their whole lives: one misstep, and the other would pounce. But neither dared to deliver the final blow. Oakland had enough on Kiley to end Sunday dinners for life. And Kiley? She’d never risk exposing her own secrets to expose Oakland’s.
But even if Kiley did expose her, maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Perhaps it was time—past time—to stop holding her breath for a life she didn’t even want.
The idea rattled in her brain because, for the first time, leaving didn’t feel like some impossible fantasy.
It felt like something real. Something on the table.
Because Christine, God, Christine, made it hard to remember why she started pretending in the first place.
She was warm and messy and utterly unbothered by Oakland’s walls.
She cracked jokes that didn’t land and laughed anyway.
She stole sips of cocoa like it was her birthright.
And when she looked at Oakland, she really looked.
It was a slow, steady undoing. And today, pressed together in a cold hockey arena, with the ghosts of her childhood breathing down her neck, Oakland was truly reconsidering whether she wanted to fight it anymore.
Her mind drifted back to their conversation earlier, the one about kids and family. For so long, it had felt impossible. Out of reach. Like something meant for other people, normal people. But now, in this moment, it didn’t feel so far away.
It felt terrifying. And overwhelming.
And maybe, just maybe, like something she could want.
Christine turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. “What?” she asked, her voice careful, like she already knew something had shifted.
Oakland didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She just… looked at her.
And for one brief second, it didn’t matter that Kiley was somewhere behind her. It didn’t matter that this was reckless or public or that she didn’t know what came next.
All that mattered was this girl. Right here. Now.
So, Oakland leaned in, pulse thrumming like a warning bell.
Christine caught her gaze and instinctively leaned in, too.
And just when the space between them narrowed to nothing, someone in the next row jumped to their feet, arms flailing, knocking into Christine. Her head jolted sideways, bumping into Oakland’s with a dull thunk.
“Shit,” Oakland winced, rubbing her forehead.
Christine blinked, dazed and smiling. “Were you about to kiss me?”
Oakland groaned, flopping back in her seat. “I don’t know. Maybe. Shut up.”