Page 149 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“Yes?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Where did Dad go?”

“He was taking out the trash. His stress response is to start cleaning. But we can intercept him on the way down.” She pulls out boots for me and a coat. The coat I wore?—

“Not that one,” I croak.

She glances down at it, her brow furrowing. But she puts it away without question and finds another one from the closet. I shrug it on, followed by the boots. Everything still feels… rote. I’m doing this all through muscle memory, while my brain sluggishly tries to catch up.

We catch Dad on the second floor, and he smiles at me. Without complaint, he turns around, and we all go downstairs together. His truck is parked just a little ways down the street. I climb into the back, buckling in and drawing my legs up again.

The drive to the ice cream shop is short, and I hop out on Perri’s side. I pat my pockets, suddenly realizing I don’t have money, but she just loops her arm through mine and pulls me onto the sidewalk.

“Our treat,” she says.

I stare at the menu for too long. I don’t know what I order, if I even open my mouth or make a decision. It seems like I blink and I’m seated at a small table with a cup of mint ice cream in front of me. I take a bite, anticipating the burst of flavor.

It more tastes like ash than anything.

My stomach churns. Perri and Dad don’t say anything about it. They’re conversing about the upcoming storm that’s supposed to dump a few inches of snow on Framingham. I file that away for later just in case.

I eat half of the cup, forcing down mouthfuls until I can’t anymore, and slide the cup away.

“We can bring the rest back to your apartment,” Dad says. “I’ll get a lid.”

We return to the apartment. I shuffle to the freezer and put the cup inside. My apartment is clean. I didn’t realize it before, but the counters are clear and wiped, there are no dishes in the sink. It smells vaguely of cleaning products.

“Thank you,” I say.

“We’re worried about you,” Dad replies. “I think you should come with us this weekend.”

“To…?”

“We’re playing Michigan,” he says. “Two games. One tomorrow, one Sunday.”

There was a reason I couldn’t go, but it has slipped away. All of it has. I nod because it’s the answer he’s looking for, and Perri squeezes my shoulders.

“We bought you a plane ticket,” Perri admits. “I was hoping you would say yes and I got ahead of myself.”

I force a smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll pick you up at noon,” she says. She kisses my cheek.

I hug Dad.

When they leave, I lock the door behind them and slink back to my room. My clean room. All the extra blankets from the floor are folded on my desk chair. The main one is on my bed, which has fresh sheets.

I pick up the knife from my dresser and sit on the edge of the bed.

My watch stayed on in the shower—thankfully waterproof—and it kept the Band-Aid underneath dry, too. Now, I push the watch band higher and peel off the bandage.

The one cut has multiplied.

I run my finger over them. They ache a little. Itch, too, as the original has scabbed over.

I’m going to Michigan with Dad, Perri, and the whole hockey team.

I missed a week of class.