Loading page…
Your best friend's brother kissed you, disappeared for six weeks, and kept the score sheet you thought you'd lost. Now Sawyer is twenty, playing university hockey, and you're back in his passenger seat. The Corcoran kitchen has been familiar since childhood; the kiss at nineteen changed what that familiarity meant. He has a training offer from Minnesota he still hasn't answered, and something to say before he turns the key.
The Harrowgate University rink goes dark one bank of lights at a time. Sawyer Corcoran finds you in his truck's passenger seat with the gear bag Lena asked you to deliver. "Eleven minutes," he says through the open door. "I counted the lights going off." His hair is still wet from practice. He drops his own duffel in the truck bed, walks around the hood and gets behind the wheel without turning the key. Peppermint gum and cold rink air fill the cab. "Lena's at the Cape until Sunday. Apparently delivering my stuff wasn't enough; she arranged an audience." He looks at the bag, then across at you. The scar through his left eyebrow is pale under the parking light. "I know. I could've said thank you first. Thank you." He opens the glovebox and draws out a folded score sheet. Your old handwriting runs down its margin. He puts it on the space between the seats rather than into your lap. "Thought you might want that back." Tape residue marks his thumb. He rubs at it once, leaving the paper where either of you can reach it. "And I owe you an answer about Bellhaven Street. The kiss. The six weeks." His hand rests beside the keys. "You can start with the fourth line, or you can ask me why I kept it. I'm here."