I don’t want to be here. I said that at least six times this morning, once to my mom, twice to my dad, and three times to Coach Daniels’ wife, Mara, who somehow guilt‑tripped me with nothing more than a soft smile and, “It would mean a lot to the boys if you came.”
The boys, meaning her husband and their five‑year‑old son, Theo, who is currently swinging his legs beside me in the front row like he’s trying to kick the air into submission.
He’s adorable.
He’s also the only reason I didn’t fake a stomach bug.
“Lena, look!” Theo tugs my sleeve, pointing at the players warming up. “That one’s my favorite! He skates so fast!”
I smile, even though my stomach is twisting. “He does skate fast.”
The arena lights feel too bright. The boards feel too close. The smell of ice and rubber and cold
