Blue Ticks

Eleven: First Real Conversation

The days after Tyler's house were weird in the best and worst way. Nothing happened exactly, but also everything kept happening. Kai catching my eye in the hall for just a second too long, his fingers brushing mine when he handed back my jacket, texts at 11pm that started with "okay random question" and ended an hour later.

I wasn't sure what we were doing. I don't think he was either.

Wednesday I was in the darkroom after school, half-zoned out, watching an image slowly appear in the developer tray, when the door clicked open. I spun around to see Kai, he was still in his practice clothes, hair damp at the edges.

"Sorry, is this okay?" He gestured vaguely at the room.

"Yeah, come in." I turned back to the tray so he wouldn't see my face. "Just close it behind you."

He did, and suddenly it was just the two of us and the red safelight and the smell of chemicals and the weird intimacy that darkrooms seem to manufacture whether you want them to or not.

He came to stand beside me, watching the print in the tray slowly appear. It was him from last week's game, mid-stride on the ice, completely in his own world.

He was quiet for a moment. "I figured you'd still be here. You're always the last one out of this room."

"You've been paying attention."

"Maybe."

He tilted his head at the photo. "I look angry."

"You look focused."

"Same thing, apparently." He said it like a joke but not quite.

I hung the print to dry and turned off the timer, and when I looked over at him he was already looking at me with this expression I couldn't fully read.

"Can we just? " He stopped, started again. "I feel like every time we actually get five minutes, something interrupts it. Tyler's being loud, or someone needs a ride, or whatever." He leaned against the counter. "I just want to talk to you. Like actually."

I pulled over one of the old stools. "So talk."

He laughed a little, relieved, maybe and grabbed the other stool, and we sat there in the red light with our knees almost touching while the prints dried around us.

He picked at the edge of the counter. "Okay. Real conversation." A breath. "I've been thinking about you. A lot. And I don't really do that like, I'm usually pretty good at just not thinking about stuff I can't figure out. Hockey brain. Compartmentalize, move on." He glanced at me sideways. "You're messing with my system."

"Sorry," I said, not meaning it at all.

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not."

He smiled, then let it fade. "You don't treat me like the captain. You know? Most people, even my friends they want something. They want tickets, or to be seen with me at something, or they need a favor. And I'm not complaining, that's just how it works. But you..." He shrugged, like he couldn't finish the sentence.

"I want free hockey lessons," I said.

He laughed, real this time. "Done."

I looked down at my hands. "You're easier to be around than most people," I admitted. "I don't know how to explain it better than that."

"That's a good explanation actually."

He reached over and took my hand, slow enough that I could've moved away. I didn't. His thumb traced over my knuckles like he was thinking about something else.

"There's stuff you're not telling me," he said. Not accusatory. Just quiet and certain.

My chest tightened. "Everyone's got stuff."

"Yeah." He didn't push it, which somehow made it worse. "My dad's been..." He exhaled through his nose. "There's some old debt. Gambling thing from before I was even in high school. I thought it was handled and now it's not." He glanced at me. "That note I got a few weeks ago, whoever sent it, they knew about it. The whole thing."

I kept my face still. I was the one who put that note in his locker. I stood there with shaky hands and told myself it was just a job.

"That sounds awful," I said. It came out quiet and completely genuine because it was.

"It's fine, I'm handling it." The automatic answer. Then, softer: "It's a lot."

We stayed like that, his hand around mine, the prints swaying gently overhead and talked for a while about nothing heavy. Hockey memories. Whether photography counted as an art or a science. What we both thought we'd be doing in five years, even though neither of us really knew.

At some point he leaned in and kissed me, and it was different from the other times slower, like neither of us was in a hurry to be anywhere else.

When he pulled back he rested his forehead against mine. I could feel him smiling without seeing it.

"Hey Voss," he said.

"Hey."

"I like you a lot. Just so you know."

"I like you a lot too." The words came out before I could second-guess them.

After he left, I stood in the empty darkroom for a long moment staring at the photo of him on the ice. Focused. In his own world. Not knowing someone had been watching.

Mom was on the couch when I got home, a blanket over her legs. Leo's game sounds bled through his bedroom door.

She looked up when I came in. "You're glowing a little bit."

"I'm not."

"A little bit."

I made a face and went to start dinner. She followed me into the kitchen and sat at the table, watching me the way she does when she's deciding whether to say something.

"Is it that hockey boy?"

"Maybe."

She was quiet for a moment. "Just be careful with yourself, okay? Not even about him specifically. Just that you've been carrying a lot lately. I see it."

"Mom… "

"I'm serious, Lila." Her voice was gentle but firm. "If the money gets bad again, you come to me. We figure it out together. You're not supposed to be solving that."

I kept my eyes on the cutting board. "I know."

She reached over and squeezed my shoulder and didn't say anything else, which was somehow more devastating than if she had.

That night I lay in bed with my phone on my chest and the Blue Tick app open.

Three new requests.

IceQueen17, again. Another threat, different target. And one that just said deliver this note to a sophomore girl, she'll know what it means.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Then I accepted all three.

In the darkroom, Kai had said I was real. That it was rare. I'd sat there and held his hand and let him believe it.

Every delivery was another thing I'd have to keep straight, another version of myself I'd have to maintain. I knew that. I'd always known that.

I just hadn't expected it to start feeling like this.