Page 65 of Knottingley Ever After
Cool. Solid morning. Top form, O’Shea.
“Cup,” Rémi says, quietly.
I stare at him.
He holds out his hand. Palm up. Patient.
I, slowly, deliver the empty shaker into it.
He carries it to the sink with the skates still slung over his shoulder like a man who has decided the order of operations does not matter as long as the operations get done. Rinses it. Dries it. Returns it to me.
“There is almond milk in the fridge,” he says, level, conversational, as though we are discussing the weather and not the small Strawberry-Saturated Reckoning currently dripping off the kitchen island. “Use that instead of water for your shake. Tastes sweeter. Better for you on a morning skate.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it.
“Rémi.”
“Hm.”
“You are — you are not going to ask.”
“No,” he says, mildly, as he crouches with a fresh wad of paper towels and begins to mop the strawberry off the tilewithout ceremony. “You will tell me when you want to. Or you will not. Either is allowed in this kitchen.”
Something in my throat goes glassy.
I look down at the top of his pale head, at the broad bowed shoulders moving in calm small efficient circles across my mess, at the skates still slung patient and forgotten across his back, and the lump that has been sitting under my breastbone since I walked down those stairs swells up to the size of a fist and threatens.
Do not.
Do not cry at the man who is on his knees cleaning your tantrum off a hockey-house floor at five fifteen in the morning.
I swallow. I swallow again. I cross to the fridge, because moving is the only way I know how to survive being looked after.
The almond milk is on the second shelf, behind a half-finished carton of orange juice that has Matteo’s name written on it in Sharpie in handwriting that is, somehow, exactly what I would have guessed his handwriting would look like. I take the almond milk. I close the door.
When I turn back, Rémi has the floor mostly clean, the worst of the splash gone, the tile streaked and gleaming. He stands. Ties the bag of paper towels off in a neat knot. Drops it in the bin. Washes his hands.
“Ice in seventy minutes,” he says. “Shake. Banana. Coat by the door, you’ll want the hood. The walk over is colder than the rink.”
“Rémi.”
“Mm.”
“Thank you.”
He tips his chin at me. One degree. The Rémi standing ovation.
Then he disappears up the back stairs to shower, the skates finally lifted off his shoulder, and I stand alone in a kitchen thatsmells of cold ice, almond milk, fading cedar, and the artificial strawberry of a five-year-old emotional debt I have just paid in one beautiful long arc, and I exhale for what feels like the first time in twelve hours.
Day one, official. First Omega goalie on a Division One roster. Already in debt to a defenseman for his discretion. Already on record with the head coach as a woman who throws breakfast.
Fingers crossed nothing else happens before lunch.
CHAPTER 12
On Record
~IRIS~
