Chapter 40
There’s something about the sound of skates on scraped ice that still gets to me.
Even now, a year and a dozen bus rides into this thing I used to call a dream. I can’t hear it without feeling like I’m seventeen again. Like I’m still chasing something I’m not sure I deserve to catch.
But that’s not today.
Today, I’m just trying to get across the locker room without falling on my ass from exhaustion. My legs are jelly. My shoulder’s bruised. Someone threw up on the team bus this morning, and I’m pretty sure I’ve had three granola bars and one vending machine Red Bull in the last twelve hours.
This was the choice I made, and it was worth it.
Choosing New York meant a two-way contract starting on their developmental team.
Did I have a chance to go straight onto the pro roster in Arizona?
Yes. Did I consider it for more than thirty seconds?
No. Because I was happy to prove myself.
To take the time to further develop my skills before moving up.
So now I know that I’ve earned my place.
So, here I am, exhausted but happy. Tired, sore, and behind on laundry. But happier than I ever knew I could be.
I push through the double doors of our practice rink and step into the wind outside. It bites through my hoodie, slicing along my neck, but I don’t care.
Because I get to go home. To her.
Our place isn’t big. Nothing is in Manhattan, but we make it work.
I’ve learned to live under the same roof as the cluttered space she calls an office.
It’s the second “bedroom” that could moonlight as a closet.
Papers are stacked in random corners, and she’s got tripods and lights set up to create the perfect setting for the videos she still makes.
They’re just a little more analytical now.
She melded her job perfectly with her influencing.
Her work laptop is covered with hockey stickers, and the cats are constantly in and out, leaving their toys lying around everywhere.
The kind of mess that would have driven me to distraction a year ago.
But to her, it’s the perfect workspace. And I’m learning to accept the fact that not everything has to be perfect all the time.
Bluebeard meets me at the door as always, winding around my ankles. I stumble, cursing, then reach down to give him a scratch under the chin. He lets out a chirp that’s one part greeting, two parts passive-aggressive guilt trip for abandoning him.
Simon, our white and orange menace, yawns from the top of the couch, tail twitching. Winston, the new black floof, is nowhere to be seen. Which means he’s probably inside a drawer. Or in the fridge. Or plotting a heist in the closet.
“Hey, monsters,” I say, dropping my gear bag and toeing off my shoes. “Anyone break anything today? You hold down the fort?”
Bluebeard blinks at me like I’m the idiot in this equation.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet, but I already know where she is. Celeste’s performance starts in an hour.
I throw on a sweater and book it down the block to the nearest train, texting Luna as I go.
Me: On my way. Don’t kill me.
She replies with a skull emoji and a GIF of a ballerina dropkicking someone. I chuckle. She’s right. It wouldn’t be Luna causing me bodily harm if I showed up late. It would be her sister.
By the time I slip into the theater, the lights have already dimmed, but I show my ticket to the usher, who points me toward the front.
Luna’s in the second row from the stage on the aisle.
Her profile is silhouetted in the stage glow, sharp and beautiful and familiar in a way that still knocks the wind out of me.
I slide into the seat beside her, and she doesn’t look at me, just hands me a folded program.
Celeste’s name is circled in pink highlighter and surrounded by at least six stars.
“She’s got a solo pretty soon,” Luna whispers, not mad.
She understands. And that’s the beautiful thing about us.
I’m still getting used to it over a year later.
There are no strings, no expectations. We understand the responsibilities of each other’s jobs.
But we know we can count on each other when it counts.
I nod, trying not to make too much noise as I’m settling in.
A familiar ache rises in my chest as Celeste takes center stage. She’s grown. Not taller, but steadier. Stronger. Her arms glide through the air with impossible grace. She dances across the stage as if she’s floating, and then she spins. Something deep inside me cracks.
It’s not the usual thunderstorm of panic, not that chest-tight, world-narrowing dread. It’s the other kind, the kind I used to fear because that depth of emotion was frowned upon. Weak.
But I let myself feel. Because this matters. Because she matters. Our lives are inextricably woven together now.
Luna slips her hand into mine and leans in, whispering low. “Are you crying again?”
I swallow. “No.”
She smirks. “Then what’s with the excessive blinking?”
“That’s called blinking.”
“It’s called you get misty-eyed every time Celeste does a pirouette.”
“Nothing wrong with that. She’s incredible. Never thought ballet would be my thing.” It’s kind of like when we play hockey, but less violent. The impossible speed, grace, and athleticism of ballet are mind-blowing.
Luna’s smile softens, and I squeeze her hand a little tighter.
After the final curtain call, we wait outside with the crowd. Celeste bounces out of the stage door ten minutes later, face flushed, grinning ear to ear. She’s in her warmups, hair still pulled back in a slick bun, her mother’s scarf around her shoulders.
Luna’s mom is with her. She’s bundled up in a long coat and leaning on a cane, but she looks present, and her eyes are clear. They’d been dulled by the pain for so long.
She got a new doctor a few months back. One that finally searched for the problem. Tried out some new medications until she found the one that worked. That gave her enough relief until her surgery next month.
Tonight, she made it out for Celeste. They all made it out to see her dance her first dance with her new academy.
And watching Luna hug her, that soft, crumpling hug that means everything all at once, I feel something in my chest click into place.
This is a family. The kind I never knew I needed. Hell, I never even knew this kind of love existed growing up.
Later, after the applause and flowers and awkward photos, Luna and I emerge from the subway tunnel into the fresh crisp late winter air.
Snow has started to fall. It’s the light, powdery kind, clinging to her eyelashes. She tucks her hand inside my coat like she always does, fingers finding their spot over my heartbeat.
“Think she knows how proud you are of her?” I ask.
She nods. “I think she finally gets it. Now that she’s reached the wise old age of almost nineteen.” Now she’s wearing my favorite smile. Corners quirked up in the perfect combination of happy and teasing.
Light pours from the big glass doors of our condo building, welcoming us home. But I don’t need to be in this place to be home. Home is anywhere I’ve got her at my side now.
Luna leans into me. “You still good with all of this?” she asks.
I know what she means.
The city. The cats. The chaos. Us. The temporary stint with a minor league team. Very temporary at this point. She doesn’t know it yet. I didn’t want to take away from Celeste’s big moment. But I’ve been called up.
I lift her hand to my lips. “I’ve never been better.”
She grins. “Even with Simon trying to murder you in your sleep?”
“Especially because of that.”
We reach the front door and pause. She turns to look at me, snow catching in the strands of her braid, her cheeks pink, her eyes shining.
“You still with me, Golden Boy?”
I press my forehead to hers.
“Forever.”